


'til our compass stands still

by biblionerd07



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication, Consent Issues, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Homophobic Language, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Personal Growth, Relationship Issues, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Mickey just assumed they'd have smooth sailing from here on out. It never occurred to him being in prison together might be the easiest part of their relationship.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & The Gallaghers, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & The Gallaghers
Comments: 75
Kudos: 380





	'til our compass stands still

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a full AU; I used the bulk of the events that happened in canon, but I changed when and how most of them happened. (I admit to employing some magical hand-waving in getting Mickey out of prison, but mine is at least based in reality and FAR less egregious than in canon.) This is also really only dealing with Ian and Mickey--this is definitely not a full AU with everyone else's story lines. The other characters are really only here as they relate to Ian and Mickey.

Mickey stares at the empty bunk above him. It’s empty because Ian’s beside him, still snoring in Mickey’s ear, but Mickey can’t sleep. Ian’s getting out today. Mickey is not. Yeah, Ian was ready to tank his parole hearing to stay with Mickey, and he keeps talking about waiting for each other and all that jazz. But Mickey just can’t shake the pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach when he thinks about Ian leaving him.

Again.

He shakes that thought away. This is not the same as the other times. This is Ian getting out of prison. That’s a good thing. Prison is not a good place for Ian. There are too many opportunities to shank people and get in even more trouble, get sent to isolation that _isn’t_ some no big deal vacation like Ian seems to think it is. Mickey clenches his teeth and his fists and tells himself to quit wishing Ian wasn’t getting parole. That’s a bad thing to wish. He doesn’t really wish that.

He _doesn’t_.

Ian’s breathing changes and he nuzzles his face against Mickey’s shoulder, making a little snuffling sound while he wakes up. Mickey’s throat is tight. It’s going to be years before he hears that again. There’s no way he’s getting parole after he busted out the first time he was supposed to be locked up.

“How long ‘til breakfast?” Ian asks muzzily.

“Twenty minutes,” Mickey reports.

Ian huffs. “Not as much time as I wanted. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t realize Ian wanted him to wake him up. He’s not entirely sure why Ian did.

“You were sleeping,” Mickey finally says lamely.

Ian burrows closer to Mickey’s back. “But it’s our last morning together for a long time,” Ian points out. He kisses Mickey’s shoulder and then his neck. “I wanted to make it count.”

Mickey’s throat goes dry, but not from arousal. His stomach drops. He just grunts in response. _Make it count_. Because it could be the last time. Because Ian could move on while he’s out there and Mickey’s stuck in here. Because they’ve never gotten a real goodbye, not really, but now they can.

“Hey,” Ian murmurs. He runs a hand over Mickey’s chest and gently tugs at him to turn around. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mickey lies.

“Mickey,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “You think I don’t know when you’re freaking out?”

“The fuck would I be freaking out about?” Mickey digs his heels in. He earns himself another eye roll.

“I don’t know, the fact that I’m getting out today?”

“Yeah, not like I didn’t know,” Mickey says blithely. “Good for you. Whatever.”

Ian narrows his eyes. “Really? Come the fuck on, Mickey. Don’t pull this shit in the last two hours we have for the next year or whatever.”

“Two years,” Mickey says. His voice shakes and he knows Ian hears it. “I got two years left. And don’t talk about me getting out on parole because we both know I won’t get it.”

“We don’t know that,” Ian protests.

“You gotta have good behavior and show fucking—remorse or what the fuck ever,” Mickey reminds him.

Ian can’t argue that point. “I said I’ll wait,” Ian starts.

“Don’t make any fucking promises,” Mickey mutters.

Ian grabs Mickey’s face and stops him from turning away. “Don’t fucking do this,” he says, mad now. “Don’t go back to that. We talk now, remember? Don’t push me away.”

“Ian, I just…” Mickey’s breathing is ragged now. “Will you tell me, at least? When you find someone else. Don’t leave me wondering—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ian growls. “Mickey, no.” He squeezes Mickey’s shoulders, pinning him against the bed. Anyone but Ian and Mickey would be fighting back. Hell, even a few years ago, he’d even be fighting Ian back.

“I don’t see how you can make me a promise,” Mickey says quietly.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I guess I haven’t been very good at that.” He presses his whole body against Mickey’s and brings their lips together, soft and gentle. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

Mickey closes his eyes. “I don’t want you to leave me,” he murmurs.

“You’re the one who stopped me from shanking that dude,” Ian reminds him, confused.

“Not what I meant,” Mickey admits.

Ian presses their foreheads together. “I’m not leaving this time,” he promises softly. “I know better now, Mickey.”

Mickey licks his lips. He’s still not sure he believes it, but Ian’s not going to back down right now. “Promise?” Mickey asks instead. Ian links their fingers.

“Pinky promise,” he says. He leans in and kisses his fist.

“The fuck is that?” Mickey asks, nonplussed.

“You’ve never pinky promised?” Ian asks.

“Uh, no,” Mickey says. “Again—what the fuck?”

Ian laughs. “We did it all the time when we were kids. Debs was big into pinky promises for a while. And if you break a pinky promise, you die.” He adds that part with the forced solemnity of someone humoring a child.

Mickey just raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “What, you get struck by lightning or something? You think God gives a shit if you leave my ass? Probably more likely to get struck by lightning if you don’t leave me.”

Ian doesn’t take the bait this time. He just shrugs. “Guess I better hope I can survive a lightning strike.”

Mickey can’t help it—he feels a little better. He shakes his head and huffs. “That’s stupid.”

“I’d die for you, Mick,” Ian says firmly. “I would.”

It sends a shiver down Mickey’s spine. “Don’t say shit like that,” he snaps. “Don’t fucking—Jesus Christ, Ian. You don’t die for anyone, hear me?” He can still smell that clinic, hear that bitch nurse telling Ian to make a list of people to turn to when he wants to hurt himself. It isn’t fucking funny.

“Sorry,” Ian says. He kisses Mickey again. “I’m sorry, okay?”

The buzzer sounds and their cell unlocks. Mickey sniffs and pushes Ian away so he can roll off the bunk. “Go get your meds,” he says. “Let’s go eat.”

“Mickey,” Ian says.

“Stop,” Mickey says. “Just don’t.”

“Okay,” Ian says. He watches Mickey stalk around the cell for a minute, watching him pull on his jumpsuit and spit in the sink and root around under the bed for a pair of socks.

“You coming or what?” Mickey asks, annoyed. He knows he’s annoyed because he’s freaking out, and he’s pretty sure Ian knows, too, but neither of them mention it. Ian just gets off the bunk and gets dressed.

Mickey’s been bouncing his leg for five solid minutes. They’re just sitting there on the bottom bunk, not talking, not even touching. Ian’s leaving any minute now. Mickey can’t get a deep breath. His mind keeps showing him Ian sitting on the front porch, leaving him. Ian not meeting his eyes through the glass, leaving him. Ian at the border, leaving him.

“Mickey,” Ian starts, but Mickey can’t take words right now. Ian’s always got so many fucking words and they never change a goddamn thing. Mickey surges forward and crushes his lips to Ian’s, grabs Ian’s face and pulls him closer. Ian makes a muffled little noise of surprise, but he doesn’t try to push away. He gets his arms around Mickey’s back and presses closer.

Mickey bites at Ian’s neck, makes sure to leave a mark. Ian hisses but he still doesn’t push Mickey away. Mickey pulls Ian’s jumpsuit down off his shoulders so he can get a hand into Ian’s underwear, grabs his cock dry and too tight. Ian jumps a little.

“Christ,” he mutters, but he just pushes at the neck of Mickey’s jumpsuit so he can return the favor. Mickey’s breath is coming fast and desperate, his hands are scrabbling, he’s falling apart. They don’t really have time for this, could get caught any second now, but Mickey can’t help it. He has to make sure Ian can’t forget him the first day he gets out.

Ian comes with his face pressed into Mickey’s neck and Mickey’s name on his lips. Mickey doesn’t make a sound when he comes. Ian keeps trying to catch his eye while they clean themselves up but Mickey won’t do it. He feels like he’s sixteen again, running as fast as he can the second they finish fucking. Except he’s stuck in this fucking cage. It’s Ian who’s leaving.

Ian’s a persistent little fucker, though. He clamps onto Mickey and presses their foreheads together. “I’m coming back,” he whispers. “I’ll visit you.”

“Can’t on parole,” Mickey reminds him dully

“I just have to get the warden’s permission and have my PO sign off,” Ian counters, like that’s no big deal. “I can do that.”

“Sure you can.”

Ian tugs at a fistful of Mickey’s hair, just hard enough to hurt. “I will,” he says harshly, stubborn asshole as always. “Fucking doubt me all you want. I’m not leaving this time.”

Mickey can’t stop himself from kissing Ian again, softer this time. A real kiss instead of something more like a fight. “I love you,” Mickey says, voice cracking.

“I love you.” Ian says it like a promise, like he really means it. Why’s he always have to fucking say it right before he takes off? Mickey almost wishes he wouldn’t say it at all if he’s going to say it like that.

“Stay outta trouble,” Mickey murmurs. No matter how much he wants Ian with him, he doesn’t want Ian back here. Not really.

“I’ll try,” Ian says.

“Gallagher, you getting out today?” The guard, Peterson, asks from the doorway. He’s an okay guy. He cringes a little when he sees the state of them. “Jesus, what a fucking tragedy. But if you want out, we’re going now. Give him a kiss and let’s go.”

They don’t actually kiss. He wouldn’t punish them for it, probably, but they both know he’s not serious. He thinks they’re like the other guys who just pick a guy while they’re inside. Most people don’t know Ian and Mickey were an Ian and Mickey long before they were cellmates.

Ian doesn’t look back when he leaves. Mickey can see how tight his shoulders are and knows Ian’s barely hanging on. He shouldn’t be happy about that, about Ian being in pain, but he is, kind of. At least he’s not alone in feeling like his life’s ending. Christ, he’s gotten dramatic. Too much time with Ian.

Not enough time with Ian.

Peterson gives him a little nod. “Too bad you can’t open a window,” he cracks. “Smells like a fucking whorehouse in here.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Mickey mutters as Peterson walks Ian away from the cell. Mickey knows exactly what a whorehouse smells like. He’d bet money Peterson wouldn’t even know where to find one.

Mickey lies back on the bunk. He looks up at the empty bunk above him, and he forces himself not to think anything at all.

He’s got a new cellmate by dinner. He’s a skinny guy, around forty. From the look of his teeth, he’s in here for drugs. Probably a customer of Mickey’s dad and brothers. And Mickey himself, once upon a time.

“Nobody tell Gallagher,” Garcia jokes when they come walking out of the cell later. “Bet he’d be jealous.”

Mickey snarls at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Ah, leave him alone,” Lewis says mildly. “Still missing his bunkie.”

Mickey’s not missing his fucking _bunkie_ ; he’s missing the goddamn love of his life, but fuck if he’s going to say that to any of them. He calls Ian during his phone time. He still has Ian’s number memorized and just has to hope one of the younger kids didn’t poach Ian’s cell while he was gone.

“Mick,” Ian says breathlessly when the recording finishes reminding them Mickey’s still locked up. Mickey’s whole chest constricts at the sound of Ian’s voice.

“Hey,” he manages to choke out.

“God, I miss you,” Ian says, and Mickey’s eyes start to get hot.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Me too.”

“Things are fucking crazy here,” Ian says. He sighs gustily. “When are they not, right?”

“You good, though?” Mickey checks.

“Not really,” Ian says. “Not without you.”

Mickey huffs, biting down on a smile. “Don’t be a jackass.”

Ian laughs and Mickey has to close his eyes for a second. It’s only been two days. Maybe the fact that he knows it’ll be years before he can touch Ian again makes it seem longer. “Got my PO,” Ian tells him. “She fucking sucks.”

Mickey snorts. “They all do.”

“She’s making me run scams for her.”

“What?” Mickey says. “Gonna get you in hot water?”

“Probably, one way or the other,” Ian says tiredly.

“Hey, you be careful,” Mickey says, worry churning his stomach. “If you need her taken out, I’ll give you some names.”

“Mickey,” Ian says in that exasperated way Mickey dreams about. “I’m not going to _kill_ her.” After a second he adds, “Well, not yet, anyway.”

“Just giving you options,” Mickey says huffily.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ian says dryly. “Got a new cellmate yet?”

“Yeah, the same day you fucking left. They didn’t give me any goddamn time alone.”

“You gonna end up fucking him?” Ian asks baldly.

“Not a chance,” Mickey says. “Not my type at all.”

“Hasn’t tried to kill you yet?” Ian asks sagely.

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Not even one freckle,” Mickey says, all mournful. “You know I can’t fuck anyone who isn’t half-alien.”

Ian’s laughing, but his breath hitches a little. “I miss you,” he says again. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, because he’s been having the same problem.

“I talked to the warden,” Ian says, voice full of forced cheer. “He’ll let me know this week if I can get on your visitor list.”

“Your PO gonna sign off on that?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah.” Ian’s voice changes, gets a little darker. “She really wants you.”

“What?” Mickey asks, surprised. “Wants me?”

“For her scams,” Ian clarifies, which makes a hell of a lot more sense than what Mickey was thinking. “Says she’s never gotten a Milkovich.” He blows out an annoyed breath. “I’m not letting her anywhere near you.”

“Not like it matters,” Mickey points out. “I won’t ever need a PO.”

“Quit saying that,” Ian says. “It could happen.”

“You think I’m ever gonna convince a whole panel of people I deserve to be out in society?” Mickey asks skeptically.

“Go to those drama classes while you’re in there,” Ian requests. “Learn to act.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh. “Hey, shut up, I can act. Acted like I didn’t want dick for a long time, didn’t I?”

“You really didn’t,” Ian corrects. “You were terrible at that.”

Mickey laughs harder. “Fuck you.”

“I wish,” Ian sighs.

“Milkovich, time’s up,” a guard calls out. “Lotta guys want to call their mommies, too.” There’s not technically a rule for how long Mickey can be on the phone, as long as he’s got the money for it. Dude’s being a jackass, but there _is_ a line and he’s kind of trying to remind Mickey that someone might take matters into their own hands if Mickey doesn’t quit hogging one of the phones.

Mickey groans. He gets a lump in his throat at the thought of hanging up, not having Ian even in this little way. “Gotta go,” he says.

“Oh.” Ian’s voice is small, bruised. “Felt so short.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees.

“I love you, Mickey,” Ian says.

“I love you,” Mickey murmurs.

“Bye, Mick,” Ian says.

“Bye.”

They listen to each other breathe for a second, and then Mickey forces himself to hang up before anyone gets mad enough to teach him a lesson.

“Milkovich,” Peterson says two weeks later. “Visitor.”

Mickey springs up off his bed, fighting not to look too eager. It can only be Ian. Who the fuck else would visit him? He practically sprints into the visitation room. He sees the flash of red hair before anything else, and his heart jumps up into his throat. He’s shaking a little when he finally gets to the table Ian’s sitting at.

Ian’s smile is blinding, though a bit tremulous. “Hey, Mick,” he says.

“Come here,” Mickey says, tugging at Ian until he stands up. Mickey wraps his arms around Ian and breathes him in. They get one hug at the beginning and one at the end of every visit, and Mickey doesn’t give a fuck who’s watching or what the consequences might be. He’s taking those hugs.

“God,” Ian whispers. “I miss the way you smell.”

Ian’s always had a weird kink about sniffing Mickey. Not like Mickey’s complaining or anything. He swallows hard and makes himself let go of Ian. If they take too long, the guards will get involved, and he doesn’t want them ruining this.

Mickey just stares at Ian for a minute when they sit down, taking in every inch of his face. He looks kind of tired. “You good?” Mickey asks.

Ian nods. “Paula’s just riding my ass,” Ian says. “Won’t let me actually help anyone.”

Not helping people goes against Ian’s nature. Mickey hates this Paula bitch, even without meeting her. He hates most people, so it’s not like this is a big leap.

“Want me to bust out again so I can take her out?” Mickey jokes.

Ian laughs. “If you bust out of here, we’re not wasting time on Paula.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “That mean you really do want me to?”

Ian rests his chin on his hand, smiling a little. “No,” he says. “I mean, I want you out of here. But I don’t want to be fugitives again.”

Ian was never actually a fugitive, and he only rolled with Mickey while Mickey was a fugitive for like two days, but Mickey’s not going to pop their bubble by reminding them both of that particular goodbye. “Sucks we can’t get a conjugal,” Mickey says.

Ian laughs out loud. “Illinois doesn’t do that,” he says.

“Yeah, because Illinois fucking sucks.”

“Another reason we should move to California,” Ian says.

Mickey huffs. “Another? You’ve never said shit about moving to California.”

Ian waves a hand like Mickey’s logic is pointless. “There are plenty of reasons.”

“Give me one that doesn’t have to do with one of us being locked up.”

“More gay guys,” Ian says.

“More gay guys than in Boystown at your fairy clubs?” Mickey asks, unimpressed. “Doubt it.”

Ian laughs. “Fuck off. They’re not _my_ fairy clubs, anyway. You could go if you wanted.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’ve been, remember? Don’t need to go back.”

They fall into silence, just looking at each other. Mickey wants to ask if Ian’s fucking anyone else. But he’s scared to know the answer. He doesn’t see any hickeys or anything, but that doesn’t mean much. They never gave each other hickeys when they were fucking like rabbits at Kash ‘N Grab.

“The other guys miss me?” Ian asks jokingly.

“Yeah, it’s all we talk about,” Mickey tells him sarcastically. “No one has anything better to do than worry about your ginger ass.”

“Well, everyone else might, but I know you don’t.”

Mickey flips him off, but he can’t stop laughing. He feels fucking _giddy_. Ian’s here. Ian’s cracking jokes and busting Mickey’s balls and smiling at him and Mickey feels like something in his godforsaken life is finally going right.

They just sit there and shoot the shit for two hours. The sound of Ian’s laugh makes Mickey’s heart do cartwheels. He misses Ian so goddamn much. It’s a physical pain.

“Five minutes,” the guard calls out. “Start your goodbyes.”

Ian’s face falls. “Didn’t really think about how shitty this part would be,” he admits.

“Better than nothing,” Mickey says.

“Yeah?” Ian checks.

“Jesus, Ian, yes,” Mickey assures him. “There’s never gonna be a day I don’t want to see you, okay?”

Ian ducks his head a little. “Okay,” he murmurs. “And just so you know, me too. I know you think I’m out there fucking dudes or something, but I’m not. I’m just thinking about you.”

Mickey’s throat gets tight. “Okay,” he says. It’s a hell of a lot easier to believe that with Ian right here in front of him.

He holds Ian tight when they get their goodbye hug. “I love you,” Ian whispers in his ear.

“I know,” Mickey says. “I love you, too.”

“Alright, time’s up,” the guard says. He’s giving them the stink eye like he knows they’re going to cling to each other. Mickey wants to, but he doesn’t want to get Ian kicked off his visitor list. He takes a last deep breath of Ian and eases himself back.

“Bye,” he says.

“Mickey,” Ian says. He just stops there. He’s practically vibrating. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Mickey promises softly. “It’ll be okay.”

“How?” Ian asks. He’s clenching his jaw to keep from freaking out.

Mickey shrugs. “Not like we got a choice, right?”

Ian blows out a breath. “I love you,” he says again.

“I love you, too,” Mickey repeats. He’ll repeat it as many times as Ian says it first.

“Get moving,” the guard warns. Ian nods. He puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders but stops himself from a second hug. He does have some brains in there.

“Okay,” Ian breathes. “Bye.”

“Bye, Ian.”

Ian swallows hard. He nods again. Then he turns and leaves. Mickey watches his back, holding his breath to keep himself together. He’s so fucking sick of watching Ian walk away. But then Ian turns back. He casts a look over his shoulder, a last nod at Mickey. It settles Mickey’s chest a little.

This is different. Ian’s leaving this time because he _has_ to. He’s leaving where Mickey is, but he’s not leaving Mickey. They’re still in this together. Mickey waves at him, feeling kind of stupid, and it makes Ian crack a little smile. He waves back, and then he’s gone.

Mickey closes his eyes for a second, gathering himself. He doesn’t wait for the guard to yell at him to get back to his cell; he goes on his own steam and walks back alone.

“Mr. Milkovich, how are you?” The federal prosecutor from Mickey’s plea deal says. He can’t remember her name. Something like Jenkins or Jinkins or something. He doesn’t really know why she’s here. He thought the terms of his deal were already done.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“Well, we’re heading to trial,” she says. “We need to go over your testimony.”

“Hold up,” Mickey says. “Testimony? I never said I’d testify. It’s not part of my deal. I gave that statement with my hand on the Bible and everything already.”

“You swore an affidavit,” she says. She sounds like she’s agreeing with Mickey, though he doesn’t know what the hell an affidavit is. “But we always knew trial testimony was a possibility.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Mickey points out, mouth going dry. It’s one thing to be a snitch in a medium-security state prison. It’s another to go to court and roll on the cartel right there under their noses.

The chick blows out a breath, frustrated. “Are you refusing to testify?”

Mickey literally had no idea he could do that until she asked. He’s opening his mouth to say yes when something occurs to him. “Could I get out sooner if I do?”

She taps her pen on the table a few times, eyes narrowed at him. “You want early release?”

“You’re the one changing shit and I’m the one taking all the heat,” he points out.

“Reducing a sentence isn’t exactly easy,” she says.

“Well, how bad do you want me to testify?” He asks. He crosses his arms over his chest. “’Cause I ain’t saying shit until I get a new deal.” 

She looks pretty pissed about it, but Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. They’re setting him up to get in even more danger with the cartel; the least they could do is let him out so he can get back to Ian. He doesn’t want to die in here.

“Fine,” she says stiffly. “We can talk about that.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says. “How soon can I get out?”

“You have two years left per your original deal,” she says, looking at her notes. “That’s a pretty good deal, all things considered. Dropping the escape charge was huge.”

“So?” Mickey says. “What, am I supposed to say thank you for locking me up?”

She’s getting more annoyed at him by the second, but Mickey’s realized now he’s the one with all the leverage. This chick would be awful at poker. She showed her hand in two seconds flat.

“We really should have your lawyer here for this discussion,” she says.

“I don’t have a lawyer,” Mickey reminds her. “Some dude from the public defender’s office fell asleep while we made the deal the first time.”

She winces a little. “He’s no longer with the public defender.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “So I don’t have a lawyer.”

“You’ll still be represented by someone at the public defender’s office,” she explains.

“I know I can waive that shit,” Mickey says, “Not like this is my first time or anything.”

She purses her lips and just stares at him for a minute. “You’re waiving your right to counsel?”

“Yep.” He spreads his hands out. “Let’s make a deal.”

She sighs and pushes up her glasses. “It is… _possible_ ,” she starts, sounding like someone’s holding a gun to her head, “that you could be released…when we finish the trial. It’s not a completely uncommon deal we make with federal witnesses.”

“No shit?” Mickey asks. “When’s that?”

“Well, the trial starts in a month,” she says. “It could last weeks.”

“But we’re talking like two months here,” Mickey points out. “Yeah, that’s a lot fucking better than two years.”

“Sure. But Mr. Milkovich, you will have to cooperate with me every step of the way. And then you’ll be on parole. Are you ready for that?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey says. “I just need out.”

“I’ll have to get a judge to approve it,” she warns.

“You think they won’t?”

She sighs again. “Well, luckily for you, we are very determined to get these convictions.”

“Great,” Mickey says. He wants to jump out of the chair and run straight for the phones. Ian’s going to lose his fucking mind. Hopefully, anyway. Mickey rubs his eyes and tells his brain to shut the fuck up. Ian will be excited.

“Mr. Milkovich, there’s something else we need to discuss,” she says. “It’s about your safety.”

Mickey’s stomach clenches. “You gonna try to put me in solitary?”

“Do you honestly feel safe in gen pop?” She asks. “You’re going to be on the witness list in a federal trial against an international drug cartel. That’s a huge target on your back.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He runs his hands over his face. “I ain’t sitting in solitary for a month, though. I’ll go fucking crazy.”

“But—” She starts.

“Look, lady, I can handle myself. I’m guessing you got my rap sheet in there.”

“I’ve also seen your father’s and your brothers’ records,” she admits.

Mickey barks out a laugh. “Fucking great.”

“And I have to remind you, if you’re involved in any gangs, that could cause problems,” she warns.

“I’m not in any gangs.”

She looks at him for a minute, eyebrows raised. “You need to stay out of trouble for this. Good behavior and cooperation all the way.”

Mickey leans back in his chair. “I will.” She still looks skeptical, which is just rude. Mickey huffs. “I got someone waiting for me outside,” he says quietly. “I gotta get out soon as I can.”

She looks surprised. “Oh,” she says. She writes something down on her notepad. “Could the cartel know about her? Is that a concern?”

Mickey licks his lips. “He can take care of himself.” He doesn’t love sharing information about his life with random people, but it’s not like he’s afraid of this chick.

Her blinks and her pen kind of stutters over the paper for a second, but she fights to get her face under control. “Okay then. So you’re saying he doesn’t need protection?”

“What kind of protection? You talking taking him away from his family?”

“Mostly just sending an extra patrol around his house,” she says. “It’s not much, admittedly, but it’s better than nothing.”

Mickey shrugs. “That’s fine, I guess.” Maybe they’d actually have a useful police response time in that neighborhood for a change. Although Mickey’ll have to warn Ian about the extra cops, so he can warn Carl or Liam or whichever sibling’s slinging weed these days.

They go over his statement, and she tells him not to swear when he’s testifying. Mickey’s not as dumb as he looks, so he could’ve _guessed_ that, but whatever. She finally leaves and Mickey heads straight to the phones. He’s going to have to buy more phone time soon, but he has time for this.

“Hey,” Ian answers, surprised because Mickey already called today. “Everything okay?”

“I’m getting out,” Mickey says without preamble.

“What?”

“I gotta testify at the trial and then I’m on parole.”

There’s a beat of silence. “When?” Ian asks, voice hushed.

“Trial starts in a month,” Mickey says. “Could take a few weeks after that, I guess, but—”

Ian whoops loud enough that Mickey has to pull the phone away from his ear. He’s laughing, though, relief shooting through his stomach and all the way down to his toes. Ian’s happy that he’s getting out.

“Mickey!” Ian yells. “Less than two months? Fuck. Yes!”

“They’re going to be sending cops around, I guess,” Mickey warns him. “Make sure the cartel doesn’t try anything on you.”

Ian absorbs that. “Are you safe?” He asks.

“It’s not a big deal,” Mickey says dismissively. “I’ll stay out of the yard and only shower when the other guys will watch my back.”

“Wait, Mick, seriously?” Ian asks. “Are you actually in danger?”

“Ian, I’m testifying to put them in federal prison,” Mickey points out. “Cartels don’t really like that very much. So I mean, yeah, they might try to take me out first, depending on who they can get in here.”

Ian lets out a breath with a whoosh. “And your only options are looking out for yourself or solitary for a month,” he guesses.

“Yep.”

“Jesus,” Ian mutters.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey says. “Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

“God, I wish I was still there to have your back.”

Mickey ducks his head, smiling. “Yeah, well, I managed alright without you before, Army man.”

Ian snorts. “Please. You ended up running with a cartel without me. You obviously needed me around to help.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says softly. “Obviously.”

Ian comes for another visit the next week. He looks grim. “Paula’s dead,” he says.

“Paula—your PO Paula?” Mickey asks.

“Yep. Someone threw her out a window.”

Mickey cracks up laughing. “That’s amazing.”

“Mickey!” Ian scolds. “It isn’t funny.”

“It’s hilarious. There’s an entire verb for that,” Mickey defends himself. “Anyway, she was a bitch and she deserved it.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You didn’t even know her.”

“Know she treated you like shit,” Mickey points out. “That’s all I need to know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ian says, rolling his eyes again. Then he looks Mickey over, a slow smile starting up. “Two months until I can finally touch you again,” he says, voice low. He shakes his head. “Can’t wait for that.”

“Yeah, you miss my ass?” Mickey asks with a little leer.

But Ian’s face goes soft. “Yeah,” he says plainly. “I miss all of you. Even the snoring and the shitting. I just miss _you_ , Mick.”

“Alright, Jesus,” Mickey says, like he’s not blushing a little bit. “Don’t get all fucking sappy on me.”

Ian just shakes his head, because they both know Mickey gets sappy all the time. “Know what you’re going to say at the trial?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, pretty much all the same shit I said in my statement when I first snitched.”

“Nervous?” Ian asks.

Mickey shrugs. He is, kind of, but it’s too far away to even think about. “I don’t know.”

“Just watch your back,” Ian reminds him. “If anything happens to you and I don’t get you back in two months, I’m gonna be pissed. Then _I’ll_ have to throw someone out a window.”

It probably says something bad about Mickey that Ian threatening to kill someone seems like the height of romance, but Mickey doesn’t give a shit. He’s always been trash. At least Ian doesn’t mind.

The bailiff gives Mickey a look while the transport guard unlocks his handcuffs. “No funny business,” the bailiff says. He’s like a thousand years old, so he definitely doesn’t want Mickey trying anything and making him get off his crusty old ass.

Mickey holds up his hands placatingly now that he can separate them. “Just here to testify. Civic duty and all that shit.” Just because he’s not going to swear on the stand doesn’t mean he can’t swear out here.

He shuffles into the courtroom, feet still shackled, and he spots Hector, the head of the cartel. Bile rises up in his throat when Hector makes eye contact. He can see the blind hatred in Hector’s eyes. Mickey’s a dead man if Hector ever gets a chance. Mickey blows out a breath and looks away from Hector. And then he sees the flash of red in the back corner.

Ian’s sitting there. Ian came to the trial. He meets Mickey’s eyes and gives Mickey a look so full of love Mickey can’t catch his breath. He doesn’t know exactly what his face is doing, but it must tell Ian enough, because he smiles.

“Come on,” the bailiff says. He leads Mickey up to the witness stand and Mickey does the whole thing with the Bible. Like the Bible would keep Mickey from lying. He doesn’t give a shit about God. There’s one dude in the whole universe Mickey cares about, and he’s sitting in the back corner.

The prosecutor chick goes through the questions they talked about. Mickey keeps his eyes on Ian the whole time. He doesn’t want to look at Hector. He doesn’t want to look at the jury, deciding if he’s lowlife trash enough to not believe. He looks at the only person who gives a shit about him in this room—in any room, really—and he says everything he promised to say. The defense doesn’t have much to counter with. Mickey’s testimony is really fucking damning. That was the whole point.

And then they’re telling him he’s done and he can get off the stand. He almost trips over his feet trying to watch Ian all the way out of the courtroom. Ian waits maybe two seconds and then comes out into the hallway.

“You did great,” the prosecutor chick’s secretary or whoever the fuck the kid with curly hair is tells Mickey. “We’ll bring you back the next few days just in case we need to recall you, but you’re probably done.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He’s still looking at Ian.

“Gallagher?” The transport guard recognizes him. “For real?”

“Trial’s public,” Ian says stubbornly.

“You think I’m gonna let you two play grab-ass while he’s out here on a day trip?”

“I came for support,” Ian says, raising his chin.

“Whatever,” the guard says, annoyed. “Can I take him back now or do you still need him?”

“No, he’s done for the day,” the secretary guy says.

Ian gets a hand on Mickey’s arm while the guard puts his handcuffs back on. “Bye, Mick,” he says quickly. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

“What about work?” Mickey asks.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ian shakes his head. “I’m coming.”

The guard doesn’t let them have a hug or anything like that, but Mickey watches Ian the whole time the guard drags him down the hallway to get back to the van. It’s the first time in Mickey’s life he’ll ever be looking forward to going to court, that’s for damn sure.

The trial goes on for five more days. Every day, Mickey has to get his cuffs and sit in a holding cell just in case they need him. They never call him back out. He has no idea if Ian keeps his promise and comes back every day. He never gets to see him if he’s there. The prosecutor lady comes with the transport guard on the last day of the trial.

“Well, it’s over,” she tells him. “We got the convictions. All three of those guys will be in prison for at least forty years.”

“Great,” Mickey says. He can see Ian standing just outside the doors to holding and his heart leaps. “Can I go now?”

They get out of the cell and Ian echoes him. “Can I take him home?”

The guard gives Ian a look like he’s stupid. “You think we’ll just release him, right here, right now? In his jumpsuit and handcuffs?”

“I’m on parole now,” Mickey protests. “You can’t let me go with him?”

“We gotta take you back and process you out,” the guard sneers. “It’ll be tomorrow. You already missed the window for getting out today.”

“That’s not my fucking fault,” Mickey points out hotly. “Jesus Christ, why’m I being punished for your shitty timing?”

“Kid, this is the way it works. It’s called bureaucracy.” He turns to Ian. “You can pick him up outside the prison tomorrow at ten am.”

Ian shakes his head, eyes flashing with fury. But he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Okay,” he says, defeated. “I’ll be there, Mick. One more night.”

“Yeah, great,” Mickey says bitterly. One more night in his cage, trying to sleep with one eye open. One more night without Ian. But it’s not like he has a choice, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He brushes his shoulder against Ian’s while the guard pulls him away.

“See you tomorrow, Mickey,” Ian calls after him. “First thing in the morning.”

Mickey looks over his shoulder. Ian looks forlorn, standing alone in the middle of the hallway, watching Mickey get hauled away in cuffs. “Tomorrow,” Mickey says. He lifts his chin at Ian and Ian nods back. It’s all they’ll get until the morning.

Mickey doesn’t hear a word of his processing out stuff. He has to sign a paper saying he got everything back he brought in with him. He didn’t bring anything in with him in the first place. He had a burner cell he used in Mexico that he dumped before he turned himself in. He gets his clothes back and a check for the balance of his commissary—a whopping $4.52. He doesn’t _care_. He just wants to get outside.

He gulps in a deep breath of free air once he’s out the door. He’s almost afraid to open his eyes. He knows Ian’s going to be there. Why would Ian show up the day before and promise to be there and then back out? But there’s some little sliver of Mickey that thinks maybe Ian wised up overnight.

“Mickey!” Ian calls, ending Mickey’s worry. Mickey does not sprint over to where Ian’s waiting. If he walks faster than he’s ever walked in his life, whatever. No one else knows that. Ian grabs onto the hem of Mickey’s shirt and pulls him into a tight embrace.

Mickey puts his hands on Ian’s face and kisses him right there in the parking lot. The kiss is sloppy and desperate and absolutely perfect. Mickey never wants to go three and a half months without kissing Ian ever again.

Ian pulls back but cradles Mickey’s face in his hands. “I missed you so much, Mick,” he says. All the last pieces of doubt Mickey had about Ian waiting for him blow away with the wind. Ian doesn’t even have to say it—Mickey knows he didn’t fuck around. Mickey leans in and kisses him again, just a short, soft one.

“I love you,” Mickey says.

“I love you, too,” Ian says back, smiling. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here and never come back.”

Mickey laughs. “Amen to that.”

When they get in the car, Mickey grabs Ian and kisses him again. It’s the closest thing to real privacy they’ve had in over a year. Ian kisses back eagerly.

“We gotta go see the PO,” Ian says between kisses.

“Fucking kill the mood,” Mickey complains.

“Sorry. But I don’t want you going back, so we have to do this right.”

Mickey sighs, resting his forehead against Ian’s. “Yeah, yeah. We gotta do that right now?”

Ian shrugs. “Figure we can go home and fuck first.”

“God, you have the best ideas,” Mickey says fervently. “Want me to blow you while you drive?”

“How about we get out of the prison parking lot before we commit any misdemeanors, okay?”

It’s not a no. Mickey settles back into his seat, maybe a little smug. It’s never really been an imposition to suck Ian’s dick, that’s for sure. They don’t talk about anything exciting on the drive back into the city, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t need to talk about anything exciting. They can talk about whatever they want, for as long as they want, and Mickey can reach over and touch Ian as much as he wants.

The Gallagher house is crawling with people, even more than usual. “The fuck?” Mickey asks. None of the people in the front yard are related to Ian. He doesn’t think so, anyway, but then again, Liam doesn’t exactly look related either.

“Carl,” Ian says, shaking his head like that’s an explanation.

“You know there’s a Mexican cartel after me, right?” Mickey points out.

Ian blinks. “You think the cartel is worming their way into my house to get to you by selling tamales with Carl?”

“Tamales?” Mickey echoes.

“It’s a long story,” Ian says wearily. “Actually, I have no idea. All I know is they’re selling tamales. They’re good tamales, though.”

“Can I eat one?”

“Yeah, I’ll steal you one,” Ian says. “Let’s go.”

They fuck first, because there’s no telling how long the bedroom will be free and also because Mickey doesn’t exactly feel at his best, sexually speaking, when he’s just eaten a tamale. But Ian’s right; they’re good tamales. They sit on Ian’s bed—their bed now, Mickey figures, and at least it’s not a twin anymore—and eat tamales. Every so often, Ian looks over at Mickey and just grins.

Lip walks in and grimaces. “Jesus, it smells like sex in here,” he complains. Then he notices Mickey and raises his eyebrows. “Oh, guess that’s why. How’s freedom, Mickey?”

“Pretty great so far,” Mickey says.

“Yeah, they’re good tamales, right?” Lip asks.

Mickey shrugs and gives Ian a little glance from the corner of his eye. Mickey’s not going to say it out loud, but he wasn’t talking about the tamales. Ian gets it and ducks his head, grinning. Unfortunately, Lip gets it too. He makes a face.

“I can’t really listen to anyone being in a happy relationship right now,” he says. Right on cue, his kid starts screaming down the hall. He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Ian, I gotta go talk to Tami tonight. Do you think you could watch Freddie for a few hours?”

Ian looks at Mickey. Mickey does not want to deal with a baby the first night he’s out of prison. He doesn’t want to deal with a baby any night, honestly, and he didn’t even deal with his own, but he knows Ian’s all about that baby shit. Mickey just rolls his eyes. Ian elbows him.

“We got him,” Ian says.

“But not right now,” Mickey cuts in. “So maybe go shut him up.”

Lip flips him off, but he leaves to get the baby. Ian gives Mickey a look. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says.

They’re both quiet for a second, but Mickey can tell Ian’s working up to asking a question. Just when he’s about to tell Ian to just come out with it, Ian does. “You want to look up Svetlana and Yevgeny?”

Mickey can’t even talk for a second, he’s so surprised. “Why?”

“Because he’s your kid,” Ian says slowly. “And you started to love him, back in the day.”

“It’s been like six years,” Mickey points out. “Kid wouldn’t care about me.”

Ian shrugs. “Never know.”

“Well, I don’t care,” Mickey says, hackles rising.

“Oh, yeah, sounds like it,” Ian mutters.

“Why you bringing this up?”

Ian sighs. “Being around Freddie just made me remember…you know. When we all lived together in the house.”

Mickey leans his head back against the wall. “Guess it wasn’t the worst time of my life.”

Ian huffs. “I saw you kiss that baby.”

Mickey knocks their shoulders together. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Just…you know.”

It doesn’t really make sense. But Ian says, “Yeah, I know.”

And Mickey knows that he does.

“Okay, and I’ll need your address.” Mickey’s PO is a pencil-necked guy in khakis. Mickey already forgot his name. He has a fucking cell phone holster on his belt loop. Mickey wants to punch him. Instead, he rattles off the address to the Gallagher house. The PO’s eyebrows draw together.

“Well, hang on,” he says. “That sounds very familiar.” He shuffles through the mountain of shit on his desk and says, “Yeah, here it is. I have another parolee at that address.”

“Yeah, Ian Gallagher,” Mickey says. “We live together.”

“No, I’m sorry, you can’t,” the PO says. He actually does look kind of sorry. “You’re not supposed to associate with any known criminals while you’re on parole.”

“No, no, no,” Mickey says, heart stuttering in his chest. “No, you can’t—Ian’s my—I don’t got anywhere else to go.”

“I can find you a halfway house,” the PO starts.

“No, you don’t get it,” Mickey cuts him off. “Ian and me—we’re together. We’re living together ‘cause we’re, you know. _Living_ together.”

“You’re in a relationship?” The guy asks. “No, I’m sorry, it’s just that’s definitely against parole guidelines.”

Mickey rubs his nose and bites down hard on his lip to try to keep his cool. Flying off the handle right now isn’t going to help. He can’t stop his voice from breaking when he says, “You can’t take me away from him.” He even adds, breathlessly, “Please.”

The dude sighs. “Well…”

Mickey has a sudden thought. It’s a bit of a low blow, and Ian might get pissed at him, but Mickey’s willing to risk it. “He’s sick,” he says. “He’s, um, he’s mentally ill.”

“You mean his bipolar disorder?” The guy asks. “I understand he’s on medication now.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “But, uh, I help take care of him.”

The PO’s giving Mickey this look like he knows Mickey’s taking him for a ride. He’s probably interacted with Ian enough by now to tell that Ian has it under control on his own, and he can probably take one look at Mickey and figure he’s not helping take care of anyone.

“Okay,” the PO says. “I can make an exception. But I have to note that in both your files, and if anything happens, a domestic dispute or anything—”

“No, that’s not gonna happen,” Mickey protests. “We’re good. We’re solid.”

“Alright,” the PO says. “Okay. But for now I’m putting it down as a trial basis.”

“Sure,” Mickey says. “Whatever you gotta do.”

“Okay,” nerd guy says. “Can you find a job on your own or do you need me to help you?”

When Mickey goes back out to the street, Ian’s waiting for him. “How’d it go?” He asks.

“You know it’s a parole violation for us to even talk?” Mickey asks.

Ian grabs Mickey’s arm. “But what—”

“Nah, take it easy, I handled it,” Mickey promises. He winces, hoping Ian’s not too mad. “Had to use the bipolar thing, though.”

“Use it how?” Ian asks suspiciously.

“I just had to tell him I help take care of you.”

Ian huffs. “Because I’m a child?”

“Ian,” Mickey starts.

Ian shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. You said what you had to say to keep us together.”

He still seems kind of pissed about it, though. Mickey was hoping he wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s still kind of sensitive about it. Or maybe just about Mickey taking care of him. Mickey thought they got over that, but it’s not like they had much choice. Ian had to take the meds inside, so Mickey didn’t bother hounding him very much.

“Sorry,” Mickey tries. He’s not good at apologies, but he doesn’t want Ian pissed at him.

He can see it on Ian’s face the minute he relents. Ian nods. He slings an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Alright.”

“You got a new job yet?” Mickey asks. “Since you’re not doing whatever the hell with Paula’s fake ambulance?”

“Not yet. I’d go back to being an EMT for real, but no one’s going to hire me with a felony conviction if it’s not just a scam.”

He looks really down about it. Mickey doesn’t like that. “Yeah, well, I’m working security at fucking Old Army,” he says. “So how’s about you patch me up every time somebody busts my face open?”

Ian laughs out loud, which is rude but expected. “You know they wear polos, right? It’s a uniform.”

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Mickey complains.

Ian presses his face into Mickey’s hair for a second. “I promise to always patch you up,” he says, still grinning.

“Yeah, you get your rocks off on that, huh?” Mickey teases. “Love playing that nurse shit.”

Ian shakes his head, looking so fond Mickey almost can’t take it. Even after all this time, it’s still hard to believe. “Only with you, Mick,” Ian murmurs. “Promise.”

Mickey ducks his head and lets himself bask in Ian’s feelings without doubts, at least just this once.

Mickey’s just trying to buy some fucking pretzels. Ian bought a bag of pretzels two days ago that he was trying to make last, but it’s all but impossible to keep snacks in that house with how many fucking people are in and out every day. Some dickwad ate all Ian’s pretzels, and now Mickey’s running off to buy more like he’s a fucking secretary or something.

He’s not actually mad about going to buy Ian pretzels. He will never, under any circumstances, admit this to anyone, but he actually likes buying shit for Ian. Not just the part where he buys it and Ian’s happy and blows him in thanks, though that’s obviously a huge perk. Mickey just likes getting Ian whatever he wants. He likes being the one running out to get Ian’s shit. It’s cheesy as fuck and Mickey would kick someone else’s ass for saying something like that, but he doesn’t care. He gets to be the one getting stuff for Ian and no one else does.

But of course, the universe hates Mickey Milkovich. He walks into the “new and improved” Kash 'N Grab—it has some wanna-be fancy name now, with a new owner, but Mickey’s always going to call it Kash 'N Grab—and there’s his dad, twelve-pack under one arm and a loaf of bread under the other. He’s squishing the bread, because he’s so much of an asshole he can’t even let whoever’s still living in the house have un-squished bread.

They stare at each other for a second, both so surprised they don’t move or speak. Terry moves first. Mickey’s gotten soft and slow. Prison is nothing compared to Terry Milkovich.

“Thought you ran away,” Terry sneers. “Too much of a pussy to hack it inside.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. This is such old news. “You’re just mad I’m smarter than you and found a way out.”

“Whatever,” Terry says. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m buying pretzels.” Mickey’s hackles are rising. He’s in dangerous territory here. Terry seems almost sociable right now. For Terry, anyway. This is him being pleasant. But that’s never lasted long.

“What are you doing _here_?” Terry reiterates. “Thought you joined up with some bangers down south.”

Mickey, contrary to popular belief, is not an entire idiot. He is not going to stand here and tell his father he not only snitched out his cartel, but he only even thought of doing it for Ian. But Mickey isn’t a teenager anymore, either. He’s not going to shrink and hide the only good thing in his life. Not anymore.

“Ian’s here,” Mickey says, whole body tensed and ready to run. He doesn’t know if running makes him a coward. He just knows Terry has about a hundred pounds on him and doesn’t even look drunk right now. Terry’s actually meaner sober than drunk, and without alcohol in his system he can move a lot faster. Mickey has no shame in running away.

“Oh, for fucks’ sake,” Terry mutters. “You still a fag?”

Then Mickey’s mad enough that he _does_ turn into an entire idiot. Without weighing the consequences or considering the fact that he’d like to live longer than the next ten seconds, he spits, “Yeah, maybe if you tried sucking dick you’d see what you’re missing and be a fag, too. Nothing better than having his cock in my mouth, except maybe having it in my ass.”

Mickey realizes what a fucking stupid thing it was to say the second it leaves his mouth. He runs for the door, but he was dumb enough to put his back to the door. Now he has to either run backwards or turn his back on Terry, neither of which are good options. He can run faster going forward, but he cannot bring himself to put his back to Terry. He has to keep his dad in sight to know what’s going to happen next.

So Mickey sees Terry rip open the cardboard box and Mickey watches the can of beer hurtling toward his head. He tries to duck, but Terry’s already thrown another one. At some point in his life, Terry taught himself to throw with both hands, so he doesn’t have to worry about emptying one before tossing with the other. Mickey says, “Oh, fuck,” just as the can smashes into his face. He immediately starts bleeding, and his vision goes white for a second so he can’t even see. He manages to stumble-run his way to the door and get out of there. He sprints down the street, blood gushing down his chin and dropping onto his shirt.

He knows he’s safe a few blocks away. Terry sure as fuck can’t run after him. He might get in a car and drive over to Ian’s, but Mickey’s not that worried about it. Most of Terry’s attempts to kill Mickey are opportunistic. He all but forgets Mickey exists when Mickey’s out of his sight.

Mickey pulls up the hem of his shirt to dab at his nose and realizes his nose _and_ his lip are bleeding. The can smashed his lip against his teeth. He’s going to have a fat lip and probably a black eye. His nose is broken.

“Fuck,” Mickey groans. He hates breaking his nose.

He gets inside the house and hears some surprised Spanish, which he ignores. He knows he looks bad with blood all over his face and his shirt. He doesn’t care what these random people have to say about it. He goes upstairs and strips off his shirt, pressing it to his face to stop the bleeding. He realizes one second too late that Ian’s in the bedroom.

“Mickey!” Ian says, jumping off the bed. “What the fuck?”

Mickey lets Ian pull the shirt away from his face and inspect the damage. “My dad was at the Kash 'N Grab.”

“Fuck,” Ian mutters. “What’d he hit you with? His fist doesn’t usually do this much damage.”

It says something about Mickey’s life that Ian knows that. “Threw a fucking beer can at me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Ian says. He puts his arm around Mickey’s shoulders and leads him down the hall to the bathroom.

“I’m fine,” Mickey says.

“Your nose is broken and your lip’s all cut up,” Ian counters.

“So?” Mickey scoffs. “Practically nothing. I got away before he could do any real damage.”

“Will you just let me clean you up?” Ian asks. “Thought that was the deal.”

Mickey huffs, but then he groans because that fucking hurts. Ian winces and pushes Mickey down to sit on the side of the bathtub. Ian grabs the First Aid kit—a generous term for the bucket Ian keeps in the bathroom full of gauze, Band-Aids, needle and thread, Neosporin, and ibuprofen—and drops his knees between Mickey’s legs.

“Oh, well, okay,” Mickey says.

Ian rolls his eyes, but he laughs a little. He doesn’t say much as he wipes the blood off Mickey’s face, ignoring Mickey’s hisses of pain. “You need some ice,” Ian says softly once Mickey’s face is clean.

Mickey sighs. “I don’t care.” He’s getting a black eye either way and the ice is going to be cold.

“I do,” Ian says. He stands up and tugs at Mickey to do the same. He leaves Mickey on the bed with a clean shirt and goes downstairs. Mickey flops back carefully on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, not letting himself think about anything. Ian comes back with a bag of fudgesicles.

Mickey would raise his eyebrows, but he knows from experience it’ll move his nose and hurt. “This some kind of gay joke?” He asks.

Ian rolls his eyes hard. “You’re stupid,” he says. He drops onto the bed and pulls one out to press against Mickey’s face. “This was the only thing in the freezer.”

“Can I eat one?” Mickey asks.

Ian doesn’t answer, just takes one out of the bag and opens it. He doesn’t hand it over; he holds it up to Mickey’s face and holds it while Mickey licks. Mickey laughs. “I can hold it myself.”

“I’ll do it,” Ian says.

“This some kind of kink?” Mickey asks. “Must be a new one.”

Ian’s not joking around, though. He moves the makeshift ice and touches the cut on Mickey’s lip so gently Mickey can’t even feel it. Ian shakes his head. “I hate him.”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, me too.”

“I hate that he does this shit to you.”

Mickey shrugs again. “Gotta admit, I kinda provoked him this time.”

“Oh, you provoked him?” Ian says angrily. “What did you do, breathe? Exist as yourself? Love me?”

“I told him he should suck some dick to see what he’s missing and said I love having your cock in my mouth and my ass,” Mickey says.

That catches Ian off-guard. “Wha—Mick, why?” He shakes his head a little. “Obviously I like the sentiment, but I want you to stay alive, please.”

“Yeah, well, here I am,” Mickey says. “Hasn’t managed to kill me.”

Ian holds the fudgesicle up again for Mickey. He runs his hand through Mickey’s hair, soft and gentle. “For now,” he murmurs. “I wish I could get you somewhere away from him. Wish we didn’t have to worry about him.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He doesn’t mention that the image he sees behind his eyelids when he tries to sleep sometimes is Terry’s face, etched in fury, when he found them that day. The spit flying from his mouth while he screamed, the sound of his fists hitting Ian’s face. The gun smashing into Mickey’s face. And then—everything else. He doesn’t mention waking up in cold sweats and looking out the window in the middle of the night because he had another memory nightmare. Ian knows that.

“Someday,” Ian says. “I’ll take care of it someday.”

Mickey doesn’t see how that’s possible. He doesn’t know how they’d ever move out of Chicago or where they’d go, and they’re certainly not going to be able to run Terry out. But he doesn’t argue. He just puts a hand on Ian’s leg and echoes, “Someday.”

Mickey comes home from work to find Lip, frazzled, in the living room, his kid screaming like a fucking banshee. There’s people crowded all over the kitchen and an argument happening somewhere upstairs. It’s not like Mickey ever learned Spanish, but he heard enough arguments to know someone fucked around on someone else. Probably right here in the house somewhere.

“How am I supposed to get him to go the fuck to sleep?” Lip asks desperately. “It’s so fucking loud here. Who the fuck even are these people? I can’t leave him in a room and have someone come up and start fucking or fighting in there.”

Honestly, Mickey’s ready to tell him it’s his own fucking problem. It’s been about two weeks since Mickey’s run-in with Terry. His lip is all healed up and his eye isn’t black anymore, but he still gets a headache after working under the fluorescent lights all day, a fact he has not told Ian because he knows Ian will freak out about it. Mickey doesn’t want to deal with anyone else’s shit when he’s got enough of his own to handle.

But Lip has actual tears in his eyes, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He and Mickey were never exactly friends, but they’ve known each other a long time and they weren’t really enemies, either. Not all the time, anyway. Besides, Lip is Ian’s brother. Ian cares what happens to him, and Mickey cares about what Ian cares about.

Mickey holds up his hands to tell Lip to wait a second. He walks into the kitchen and barks out, “Ay, if your last name ain’t Gallagher, get the fuck out.”

“You can’t tell us what to do,” some little teenager says, trying to be all macho about it. He’s even smaller than Mickey. Mickey rolls his eyes and steps up to the kid, full intimidation. It works just like Mickey knew it would; the kid doesn’t move back, but Mickey can hear his gulp.

“You don’t live here,” Mickey says, very clearly. “Now get the fuck out.”

No one else tries to argue. They give him dirty looks and call him plenty of names under their breath, but everyone leaves. The argument upstairs dies down and Mickey heads up the stairs to the unmistakable sound of make-up sex. Liam’s sitting in his room with headphones on, doing homework. Mickey shakes his head a little. Ian worries that Liam’s seeing and hearing way too much fucked up shit for a little kid. He was not reassured when Mickey said, “I saw plenty and look how I turned out.”

Mickey pounds on the door and all sex noises cease. “Go do that somewhere else. Get out.”

After a few seconds, a guy and a girl come out, not meeting his eyes and scurrying down the stairs. Liam takes his headphones off as Mickey walks by. “Thank God,” Mickey hears him mutter. Mickey goes back down the stairs to Lip and holds his hands out demonstrably.

“Wasn’t hard,” he says. He doesn’t know why Lip didn’t just do it himself.

“Thank you,” Lip says fervently. But the baby goes right on screaming. Mickey makes a face.

“You change his ass?”

“Of course I fucking did,” Lip says. “And I fed him, and I burped him, and he still won’t stop crying.”

“He getting teeth or something?” Mickey asks. “That makes ‘em scream.”

Lip blinks. “Teething. Oh my God. How did you think of that before I did?”

Mickey would be offended if Lip didn’t look like he’s two seconds from falling over. He’s still kind of offended, but he decides to let it go. This time.

“I mean, I did have a kid,” Mickey points out. “Or do, I guess. Pretty sure he’s still alive, even if I don’t know where he is. And I’ve also slept in the last three days, so my brain actually works.”

“Uh huh,” Lip says, sounding dubious enough that Mickey’s ready to rethink that pass. “But I don’t know what to _do_ about the teething. Frank used to put whiskey on everyone’s gums when we were teething, but…” Lip shrugs. “Honestly, I can’t touch a bottle of whiskey right now.”

Apparently he’s totally sober now. Sounds fucking awful to Mickey, but no one asked Mickey. Mickey chews his lip for a second. He does not want to offer to help. He doesn’t want to hold the baby. But he does want the baby to shut the fuck up, and helping seems to be the only way to achieve that in the foreseeable future. He doesn’t know where the fuck Carl or Debbie are, Liam probably can’t do it, and Ian won’t be home from work for another hour. Mickey’s not going to last an hour with the screaming.

Mickey groans. “Fine, give it to me.”

“He’s not an _it_ ,” Lip says as he hands the baby over.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey says. “Guessing you don’t know where the whiskey is?”

“Ian and Debbie keep it all hidden,” Lip confirms. “I’m pretty sure I could find it if I really wanted to.”

“Well, don’t,” Mickey says. “You make Ian sad and I’ll break your fucking teeth.”

Lip raises his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t that mean you have to break your own teeth for the past? Or does your rule not apply retroactively?”

“Do you want me to drop your kid on his head?” Mickey asks. He wouldn’t actually do it, because Ian would kill him. But it’s an effective threat. He’s used it before on people.

Lip doesn’t even blink. “You’re the most whipped dude I’ve ever seen. You’re not dropping shit.” He says it just as scornfully as Mickey would’ve a few years ago.

Mickey shoves past Lip harder than he needs to and heads up the stairs. Lip is apparently unconcerned with watching Mickey walk away with the baby. He should be concerned. Mickey’s only baby experience happened half a decade ago, and it’s not like he was good at it then.

But he plops the kid in Liam’s lap so he can pull the old dresser away from the wall. “What are you doing?” Liam asks. He’s bouncing the kid on his knee, holding his head up and everything. He’s in fucking middle school and he already knows what to do better than Mickey does. Maybe Mickey’s supposed to feel bad about that and take more interest in the baby. He doesn’t and he won’t.

Mickey knocks on the back of the dresser until he finds the hollow spot. He pulls off the back and grabs the box hidden inside. He sifts through little travel bottles of vodka, a wad of cash, a bag of weed, and a gay porn magazine before he finds a mini bottle of whiskey.

“How’d you know that was there?” Liam asks, sounding almost impressed. “You and Ian have some kind of telepathy?”

Mickey snorts. “No, we don’t have fucking telepathy. I showed him the best spot to hide contraband while we were inside. Knew he’d keep it up here.”

“Well, now he can’t hide it there anymore,” Liam points out. “I know where it is.”

Mickey cocks an eyebrow at him. “You saying you’re going to steal from your own brother?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, like it’s obvious. “He’s got money _and_ weed in there. He can keep the gay porn, though.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh a little. He’d steal money and weed from his brothers, too. “Yeah, well, guess what? He can move it somewhere else. Not like there’s only one spot to hide shit in here.” He comes over to the bed and opens the whiskey bottle. He takes a little slug for himself before telling Liam, “Hold the head this way and open his mouth.”

Liam looks nervous. “You’re not supposed to give babies alcohol.”

“I’m not giving it to him to drink,” Mickey says. “I’d never waste that much whiskey on a fucking baby. Look.” He sticks his finger in the bottle and gets it wet, then pops the finger into the baby’s mouth just like Svetlana made him do with Yevgeny a billion years ago. “Oh, yeah, I can feel a tooth in there,” Mickey says. “No wonder you won’t stop fucking screaming, huh?”

It’s not like he spent a ton of time with his kid back when he was a baby. But he did spend _some_ time with him. Mickey remembers some things. He’s starting to feel kind of weird holding the baby and thinking about Yevgeny, sort of unsettled, so he’s happy when Liam starts talking again.

“When Franny was getting teeth, I almost killed her,” Liam admits. “Debbie didn’t give her whiskey, though.”

“Not like I’m getting a baby drunk,” Mickey says. “Just numbs their mouth so they don’t feel the teeth.”

Liam thinks that over. “But Ian said alcoholism can be genetic,” he says slowly. “So if Lip’s an alcoholic…won’t Freddie be one? So we shouldn’t let him have any, even a little?”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know shit about that,” he says. “I just know if he doesn’t stop screaming, I’m gonna throw him out the window like Ian’s old PO.”

Liam laughs and rubs at the baby’s back. “Can’t believe someone really threw a lady out a window.”

“I want to throw someone out a window,” Mickey says.

“Who?” Liam asks.

“I don’t care who,” Mickey tells him. “I just want to try it.”

Liam tips his head. “Well, if we put something under it, I’d let you throw me.”

Mickey snorts. “I don’t think Ian would go for that.”

“Ian thinks I’m still a baby,” Liam says, annoyed about it. “I’m in _middle school_. He and Lip did way worse shit when they were my age.”

“They _jumped_ out a window,” Mickey confirms. “Lip was fucking this chick—” He stops himself. Ian probably doesn’t want Liam hearing that kind of stuff. Mickey kind of agrees with Liam—Ian babies him too much. But Mickey’s not going to side with anyone other than Ian unless it’s privately, to Ian himself. “Well,” Mickey says instead. “Ian’s all grown up now and he wants to be responsible and shit. So that means babying you.”

“I hate it,” Liam grumbles.

Mickey shrugs again. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have anyone babying me ever. I got the shit beat out of me all the time. So maybe I think you’re dumb as shit for being ungrateful.”

Liam looks wholly unconcerned with this assessment. “Yeah, but kids are supposed to be dumb as shit and ungrateful.”

That makes Mickey laugh out loud. “I can’t argue with that.”

“Are you taking Freddie back downstairs?” Liam asks.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Mickey admits. “You can if you don’t want him anymore.”

Liam huffs. “You hand me the baby and then just take off?”

“Kid, that’s kind of my life story,” Mickey says. Liam doesn’t get the joke, but Mickey doesn’t care. He laughs to himself as he leaves the room and heads down the hall to the room he and Ian claimed. Debbie had her kid in here at one point, but she moved the little girl in with her when Carl brought all of Mexico home with him. It’s not like Ian and Mickey care about kicking out randos, especially when it means they get a door that locks from the inside.

Mickey flops back on the bed and tries to relax. His days include way more social interaction than they used to. Sure, he spent time in the yard with the other guys and he had a little crew around to watch his back, but he spent a lot of time in his cell. Before Ian left, they spent time in their cell together, but after Ian left, Mickey mostly wouldn’t let his cellmate hang around in the cell if he didn’t have to be in there. And even when Ian was still there, he didn’t count as social interaction. He doesn’t tap Mickey’s energy or his patience nearly as much as everyone else in the world.

People drain him. Especially at that stupid fucking store where they think he can’t see them shoplifting. Like Mickey’s some kind of idiot who doesn’t see them getting all shifty-eyed with their hands oh-so-casually stuffed in the pockets of their fucking cargo shorts. Amateurs. He doesn’t care about the stealing part beyond the fact that it’s his job to care, but bad stealing just pisses him off.

He dozes off for a little while. He hears the baby start crying again at some point and Liam stomps down the stairs, presumably to hand him back off to Lip. Mickey’s in that dazed spot between asleep and awake, where he can hear things but isn’t really processing and can’t tell how much time is passing. He can’t be sure it’s real when the bed dips and Ian snuggles up close to him.

“You asleep?” Ian murmurs. Mickey grunts. Ian brushes his fingers up and down Mickey’s back, which definitely starts pushing him over to the sleep side.

Except apparently Ian wants to talk. Mickey doesn’t actually struggle to fall asleep while Ian’s talking—you can’t share a cell with someone and not fall asleep to their voice once in a while, regardless of how you feel about them personally. Mickey had a cellmate in juvie once who kept up a constant stream of commentary until Mickey finally beat it out of him. So Mickey can block out Ian’s voice and fall asleep anyway. But he doesn’t really _want_ to. Ian’s the only person on Earth Mickey will stay awake to listen to jabber.

“Liam and Lip said you saved the day,” Ian says, smile in his voice. Mickey grunts again, kind of questioningly. He’s not sure if a grunt can sound like a question, but Ian will get it. “Kicked everyone out, got Freddie to quit crying.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I wanted a fucking nap,” Mickey says, giving up on sleep. It’s too late in the day to take a nap anyway; he’d be up all night if he did, and then work would suck even more than it already does.

Ian nudges his nose along Mickey’s jaw, waiting for Mickey to turn his head for a kiss. Mickey’s all too happy to oblige. Ian’s still smiling into the kiss. It took a long, long time for Mickey to be able to admit he loved that. It took long enough just for Mickey to kiss Ian, period, and then even longer to admit he liked it. He didn’t even admit that to himself until Ian was long gone to the Army. And then it was months after Ian came back that Mickey ever experienced Ian smiling into a kiss. They’d barely had any kisses before that to give him an opportunity. The first time it happened was like a lightning bolt through Mickey’s entire body. The thought that Ian was happy with him, so happy he couldn’t stop smiling even to kiss, almost knocked Mickey out.

“My hero,” Ian teases. He kisses Mickey again and slips his hand up Mickey’s shirt.

“Oh, I get a reward now?” Mickey asks interestedly. That’s certainly worth waking up for.

Ian laughs. “Sure, if you want one.”

“Always want that,” Mickey points out. “Long as you’re not using fucking mayo for lube.”

Ian snorts and rolls his eyes. Mickey can’t actually see his face, but he knows he just got that eyeroll. “Excuse me for making the best out of a bad situation,” Ian says snottily.

“You worked in the fucking infirmary,” Mickey reminds him. “And there was always Vaseline in the commissary.”

“You wanted me to pick Vaseline over feeding you?” Ian asks. Then he shakes his head. “Of course you did. Who am I talking to?”

Mickey cracks up laughing. “Yeah, I did. Jesus. I can go without snacks, man. Can’t go without that dick.”

“Aw,” Ian says, laughing too. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Fuck romance,” Mickey says.

“Your wish is my command,” Ian says magnanimously. He pops the button on Mickey’s pants and gets to work, and Mickey gets his favorite kind of social interaction.

They’re walking out the door for breakfast a few days later when a cop steps up and says, “Mickey Milkovich?”

Mickey can’t help it: he bolts. He hasn’t done anything big-time illegal lately, but there’s never going to be a time when a cop asking for him doesn’t make him run. It’s ingrained in his DNA. He can just barely hear Ian talking to the cop, because Ian’s a dumbass who hasn’t learned to run from the cops yet. He thinks being polite will win him points or something. Again: dumbass.

Ian catches up to him half an hour later in an abandoned lot they agreed to use as a meeting spot if anything happened. Ian’s not impressed. “You don’t even wait to hear what they have to say before you take off?” He’s got his eyebrows raised like Mickey’s the weird one here.

“What good could possibly come from talking to a cop?” Mickey asks disdainfully. “Like maybe if I’m lucky he’ll only slam my head against the car once?”

Ian huffs, but he doesn’t argue. He would’ve, back before he’d been to prison. Not anymore. “Well, anyway, he did have good news. I think.” Then he just doesn’t say anything.

“Am I supposed to guess?” Mickey asks, nonplussed.

“Uh.” Ian bites his lip and squints at Mickey for a second. The weird thing is, Mickey recognizes that look as one Ian picked up from _him_. They’ve spent so much time together, they’ve started mimicking each other’s mannerisms. It’s fucking weird. It’s also pretty fucking cool.

“Can you just fucking spit it out?” Mickey asks, trying not to get annoyed. Ian looks kind of nervous about it, so maybe he’s afraid Mickey’s going to freak out on him. It’s not an unfounded fear. But keeping Mickey in suspense has never really done anyone any favors.

“Someone killed Terry,” Ian finally says.

“Terry who?” Mickey asks before his brain catches up. “Wait, what? Terry—my fucking dad?” It’s not like Mickey knows a lot of other Terrys. It’s just that the thought of Terry actually dying seems…unreal. Impossible. Terry’s always been the boogeyman. Mickey never had to be afraid of monsters under the bed because the monster was right outside his door. He almost wasn’t sure Terry _could_ die.

“Yeah,” Ian says. He steps closer, looking at Mickey’s face carefully. “He’s dead.”

Mickey blinks. He honestly has no response for a second. “Huh,” is all he can come up with. “How?” He adds. He wouldn’t put it past someone to beat Terry to death. He sure as fuck deserved it.

“Shot him,” Ian says. “One to the head, one to the heart. He was passed out on the couch.”

Mickey starts laughing. He doesn’t think it means he’s a sociopath or anything like that. Or maybe it does, but he thinks it’s understandable, after all the shit Terry put him through. “They cut off his balls, too?” Mickey asks. “Hope so.”

Ian’s got a weird look on his face that Mickey can’t read. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“Well, okay,” Mickey says. “That is good news. We should go get pancakes to celebrate.”

“We were going to get pancakes anyway,” Ian points out. Mickey’s glad he’s not freaking out over Mickey’s reaction. Most people would probably be shocked by Mickey laughing. But Ian knows better. He was there for some of the worst shit.

“Yeah, but now the pancakes will be even sweeter,” Mickey says. He slings an arm around Ian’s neck while they walk and even leans in and gives Ian a stupid little kiss on the side of his neck. It’s cheesy as fuck and not something he’s ever really done before out in public. But he feels like he has wings on his feet or something. Terry’s dead. He’s _dead_. He can never do anything to them ever again.

“You, uh…” Ian glances over from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t do it, right?”

Mickey cracks up laughing again. “I need an alibi?” He asks. He kind of _wishes_ he’d been the one to do it. It must’ve felt so fucking good.

Mickey’s practically giddy while they eat. He even smiles at the waitress. Ian keeps giving him that weird look he can’t read. It’s weird that Ian can still have looks Mickey can’t read. He would’ve thought he had all of Ian’s looks memorized by now.

“What?” Mickey finally asks. “Can’t be happy someone finally took him out?”

At the same time, Ian says, “We should get married.”

They blink at each other. “Uh, what?” Mickey asks.

“I think we should get married,” Ian says, all in a rush.

“Uh,” Mickey repeats. Honestly, he’s…not opposed. He’s been ready to marry Ian since he was a teenager. Life and all its bullshit just got in the way. But Ian’s catching him off guard here. Sure, Ian can be impulsive, but Ian’s impulsiveness usually ends with Mickey getting shot or heartbroken, not getting something he actually wants.

“I think we should do it right now,” Ian goes on. “ASAP.”

Mickey swallows, worry and fear flooding his chest. “Are you sick or something?”

“Well, yeah,” Ian says, kind of surprised. “I’m always gonna be sick.”

“No,” Mickey says, waving a hand. “Not that. I mean like—you dying or something?”

“Oh,” Ian says. “No.”

“Why are you saying we gotta do this now?” Mickey asks. “Look, I’m not saying _no_. You just never brought it up before.”

Ian rests his chin on his fist and looks at Mickey for a second, putting his thinking face on. “You brought it up once,” he says softly.

Mickey rubs his face. “You really want to talk about _that_ right now?”

Ian shrugs. “We can’t testify against each other if we’re married,” he points out. Mickey’s heart sinks. Of course there’s a catch. “Spousal privilege,” Ian says. “Just…if we needed it.”

Mickey licks his lips. “I think staying out of jail’s a crap reason to get married.”

Ian shakes his head. “I love you,” he says easily. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. And I trust you. Besides, doesn’t it seem pretty inevitable? No matter what, we always come back to each other, right? So let’s make it official.”

Mickey purses his lips. He can’t put his finger on it, but something’s wrong about how Ian’s acting right now. He’s saying all the right shit, but something in his face is off. “But it’s a big step. Why ASAP?”

A little smile flits across Ian’s lips, and whatever Mickey thought was off goes away. Ian is totally himself when he says, “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Mickey’s heart is pounding. “Really?” He checks. He’s not sure what, exactly, he’s checking. Ian wouldn’t joke about this. He’s not going to say _just kidding_ and laugh in Mickey’s face. Even at his most manic or depressed, Ian could never be so openly, purposefully cruel.

Ian huffs out a little laugh, grinning wide. “Yeah,” he says. He leans across the table and takes Mickey’s hands. “Will you marry me?”

“Holy shit,” Mickey says, unable to stop himself. “Fuck. Yeah.”

Ian stands up and leans across the table to kiss Mickey. Mickey thinks about Terry rotting in a grave somewhere and how much he’d hate this. Mickey smiles and leans right in and kisses Ian back.

In the middle of the night, Mickey wakes up, heart hammering, and realizes Ian wasn’t in bed with him last night. He works at a 24-hour gym and gets the night shift sometimes, and he’d told Mickey he had to work the night shift. Mickey hadn’t thought anything of it. But Ian wasn’t home last night, and Ian wants to get married so no one can make them testify against each other, and Ian was weird and off all day after they found out Terry’s dead.

Holy shit. Ian killed Terry.

Mickey rolls over so he can look at Ian’s face. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s got a guilty conscience. He’s sleeping like a baby. Or he’s sleeping really well, anyway; Mickey’s been around a grand total of two babies in his life and they’ve both spent the majority of nighttime hours screaming their fucking heads off and waking everybody else up. But who would have a guilty conscience after killing Terry? Whoever did it, Ian or anyone else, deserves a fucking medal.

“Ian,” Mickey whispers. He hates waking Ian up when he’s sleeping, because Ian needs sleep. Getting worn out is bad for his mental state. But Mickey needs to know.

“Mm?” Ian says, not actually awake. Mickey gives him a little shake.

“Ian,” he repeats. “Did you do it?”

“Huh?” Ian asks foggily.

“Did you kill him?” Mickey asks urgently. “You kill Terry?”

“What?” Ian says. “No. ‘m sleeping.”

He rolls over and puts his back to Mickey. Mickey’s heart is thudding painfully in his chest. It’s not that he’s mad or anything. If anything, it’s almost turning him on. There’s definitely no better way to show he loves Mickey than to end Terry. But killing someone is kind of a big deal, and Mickey knows Ian’s never done it before. How could Ian be so calm about it? Ian isn’t a killer. He’ll knock someone the fuck out, sure, but shooting a guy passed out on the couch? That’s totally different.

Mickey wraps his arm around Ian’s waist and presses his face into Ian’s shoulder blades. Ian did this for him. Ian did this so Terry couldn’t get to him anymore, couldn’t hurt him. Ian did this so Mickey could be free, just like he’s always wanted Mickey to be. Mickey kisses Ian’s shoulder and holds him close and promises himself he’s going to protect Ian forever.

Mickey bounces his leg impatiently. It’s not like he’s nervous or anything; he and Ian have been functionally married for years now. He’s just annoyed at having to sit and wait around. Ian looks over at him and smiles and Mickey can’t help but smile back. Ian leans in and kisses him. Mickey’s stomach leaps a little. They’re getting _married_. It’s going to be official.

“Mickey,” Ian says urgently. Mickey looks over at him. Ian looks desperate. That’s kind of a weird tone shift. “Just tell me the truth. Just tell me. Honestly. Did you do it?”

“Do what?” Mickey asks.

Ian groans. “Mickey, come on.”

“What?” Mickey asks again. He’s getting a little annoyed now. He has no idea what Ian’s asking. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Did you kill Terry?” Ian whispers.

Mickey tips his head. “Wait, what? No. You did.”

Ian’s mouth drops open. “No, I didn’t!”

“Well, I didn’t,” Mickey says. “Who the fuck did?”

“I don’t know!” Ian insists. “I thought you did.”

“I thought _you_ did,” Mickey shoots back. “Like…for me.” Now he realizes that was such a stupid thing to think. Ian doesn’t kill people.

“I…” Ian looks dumfounded. “I mean, I’ve thought about it.”

“Well, sure, who hasn’t?” Mickey agrees, pushing down the ridiculous hurt feelings he shouldn’t be feeling. He is absolutely not _hurt_ that Ian _didn’t_ kill Terry for him. “Jesus, you think I’d do it and not tell you?”

“You think I would?” Ian whisper-shrieks. “I’m not the one fucking prone to murder here.”

“Prone to mur—name me one person I’ve murdered!”

They’re interrupted by the lady calling out their names. Mickey gives Ian a last affronted glare, walks over, grabs the pen, and signs right away.

Ian doesn’t.

Mickey’s heart stops. Here it is. It’s happening. The other shoe, finally dropping. He sees Ian on the front steps, leaving him. Ian across the glass, leaving him. Ian at the border, leaving him. Ian walking out of their cell, leaving him.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Mickey says flatly.

“Mickey,” Ian says.

“Jesus fuck.”

Mickey walks away. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe he let himself think—he just can’t believe all this shit. Ian made all those fucking promises when they were inside, just before he got his parole, and here he is, breaking them. Just like Mickey was afraid he would. Just like he swore he wouldn’t.

“Mickey, wait,” Ian calls out. “Let’s talk about—”

Mickey slams the door to the clerk’s office behind him. He’s definitely not supposed to do that. He doesn’t give a fuck. Ian catches up to him at the elevator, despite Mickey’s repeated stabs at the _close door_ button.

“Mickey, come on—” Ian tries.

“So you only wanted to marry me for the spousal privilege,” Mickey says.

“No,” Ian starts.

“I was the one who said why now,” Mickey points out. “I was the one who said we didn’t have to rush. And _you_ talked me into it because you thought I fucking murdered someone?”

“Mickey, I know. I’m sorry,” Ian says. The elevator doors open again and Mickey steps out without a backward glance. He slams through the door to get out of the building and lights a cigarette immediately. “Mickey!” Ian calls. “Come on, talk to me. I wanted to protect you. I—I thought I _needed_ to protect you. But it’s just—you’re right, okay? Marriage is a big deal. And look at the marriages I’ve seen. Frank and Monica? It’s not marrying _you_ that’s the problem. It’s just marriage in general!”

“Okay,” Mickey mutters. He doesn’t even turn around to look at Ian. He can’t.

“Mick, please,” Ian begs. “I want to know how you feel.”

Mickey breathes out an incredulous laugh. How he feels. How the fuck could Ian _not know_ by now? All Mickey does is come back for Ian, again and again. He fucking _came out_ for Ian. He almost got killed by his dad twice directly for Ian. _He fucking went to prison for Ian_.

“If you don’t know by now, you never will,” Mickey says. His voice breaks and he hates himself for it, hates that he can’t hide anything from Ian, even now. He can’t turn around, can’t look at Ian. He flicks his cigarette away and leaves. He ignores Ian calling after him and he walks away.

The problem is Mickey doesn’t actually have anywhere to _go_. He never considered getting his own place; he never thought he’d need it. But he sure as hell can’t go back to the Gallagher house now. He wanders around for a while, not letting himself think about anything, until he finds a bar. He gulps a little when he looks at it. There’s one of those rainbow flags in the window. This is a gay bar.

And, okay, Mickey is gay. So there shouldn’t be an issue with him going inside. He’s just always been so wary of the rainbow and glitter crowd, Ian notwithstanding. He thinks about Ian saying he could go to a gay bar and swallows the memory down. Ian meant they could go together, not Mickey on his own. Well, here Mickey is now. Alone.

Mickey moves over to the side when two dudes try to get past him to go inside. They look him over kind of curiously, but they don’t say anything to him. He can’t imagine he looks inviting. He rubs at his nose. Terry’s dead and Mickey’s not getting married. Why shouldn’t he go into a gay bar? Maybe he can find someone to spend the night with tonight. It’s that or sleeping in the street somewhere.

Mickey cracks his knuckles and rolls out his neck, and then he squares his shoulders and walks inside. He knows he probably looks shady as fuck walking in there with his shoulders hunched, eyeballing everyone, but no one stops him or anything. They should probably have better security. Mickey probably looks exactly like the type of person who’s coming here to bust some heads. Up until a few years ago, that would’ve been the only reason he’d walk into a place like this.

He avoids looking at anyone and makes a beeline for the bar. This isn’t a place like the club Ian used to dance at; it doesn’t look all that different from any other bar Mickey’s been to, except it’s got a bunch of rainbow flags all over. It’s cleaner than the Alibi, for sure, but that’s not exactly a high bar to clear.

“Hi,” the bartender says. “You want a drink?”

Mickey can’t even look directly at her. “Um, just give me the cheapest beer.”

“Sure.” The chick doesn’t push. When she walks away, Mickey takes a few quick glances at her. She’s got short hair, the kind that’s shaved on one side and probably means she’s a lesbian. He could be editorializing based on where she’s working. She’s also got a nose ring and a sleeve of tats down her arm. Mickey doesn’t know why the tats make him relax a little. Maybe it’s the nose ring. Nose rings always remind him of Mandy, not that very many people should relax around Mandy. The bartender brings him back his beer and he manages to nod in thanks.

She mostly leaves him alone. The place isn’t slammed or anything—it’s a Tuesday at 6 pm—but they’re not the only ones here. She can probably tell Mickey’s not going to be much of a tipper and flits around to other customers. He drinks steadily, going back and forth between shitty piss-tasting beer and shots of vodka or tequila every once in a while, and he doesn’t eat and he _hasn’t_ eaten, and he gets drunker and drunker as the bar fills up. Now there’s too many people, and people brush up against Mickey as they try to get drinks. Mickey doesn’t like that at all. He glares more than a few people away.

“Hey,” Mickey says, waving a hand in the air. “Beer’s empty.”

“You might want to slow down,” she says.

“No, I fucking don’t,” Mickey argues. “You not like money or something? Because I’m paying money for beer. I want beer.”

“You’re going to get belligerent on me in my bar?” She demands.

“I’m bell—what?” Mickey asks. He suddenly realizes he’s leaning on the bar hard and can’t quite manage to keep himself upright. Well, that’s not a good sign.

“I’m cutting you off,” she says.

“No,” Mickey groans. “Fuck you.”

She shakes her head. “You got a phone?”

Mickey obligingly pulls it out, wondering why she wants it. A second too late, he realizes she’s going to call someone to come pick him up or something. But Mickey doesn’t have anyone. “No one in there,” he mumbles. She doesn’t seem to be listening. He loses a little time, maybe, because then his phone his back on the bar in front of him and he doesn’t know where the bartender went. Someone left a half-empty beer forlornly on the bar. Mickey almost falls off his stool reaching over to get it, but with the help of the sturdy bar and sheer determination, he slides it over to himself and downs it just in time for the bartender to catch him.

“Jesus, dude,” she says disapprovingly. Like Mickey gives a fuck.

Then someone’s at his elbow. “Mick.”

“Oh, no,” Mickey says. “Not you.”

Ian huffs. “Great to see you, too. Where’ve you been all night?”

“Why’d you call him?” Mickey whines at the bartender.

“He was blowing up your phone.”

“Not blowing me. Nope. Not anymore,” Mickey says. He shakes his head for emphasis. “Now you gave him ’nother reason not to marry me. Too drunk.”

Now she actually does look a little sheepish. “Maybe if you followed the time-honored tradition of sharing your woes with the bartender, I would’ve known.”

“Huh?” Mickey asks. He can’t possibly follow whatever the fuck she’s talking about right now.

“Alright, Mick, let’s go home,” Ian says.

“I’m not going with you,” Mickey insists.

“Sorry, buddy, but you can’t stay here,” the bartender says. She does sound a little sorry. Now she feels bad for him. Maybe she’ll let him have all those beers for free.

“Fine, I’ll leave,” Mickey says. “But not with him. Go away, Gallagher.”

Ian’s got his lips pursed all prissily now, the way he does every time he’s pissed. Like it’s Mickey’s fucking fault. Jesus. “Mickey,” Ian starts.

“Oh my God, can you shut the fuck up?” Mickey groans. “You already said enough today. Leave me the fuck alone.” Ian doesn’t move so Mickey turns to look directly at him. He has to lean on Ian a little bit, but he’ll ignore that right now. Mickey enunciates as much as his thick, drunk tongue will let him. “I do not want you here.”

Ian shakes his head. “I want to fucking talk to you,” he insists, grabbing at Mickey’s arm.

Mickey tips his head back and growls at the ceiling. “No!” He bats Ian’s hands away.

“Hey,” the bartender says. “Leave him alone.”

“It’s okay,” Ian reassures her. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

“I meant you,” she says. “He said he wants you to go away.”

Ian looks like she slapped him. “Uh, you don’t even know what the fuck’s going on.”

“I don’t really care,” she says. “He’s drunk and you’re trying to take him home even though he doesn’t want to. I’m pretty much obligated to step in.”

Ian blinks at her for a second. “We live together,” he says.

“Not anymore,” Mickey interjects.

“Oh, Mickey, come the fuck on,” Ian starts.

Mickey spreads his hands emphatically. Or he tries to, anyway. It knocks him off balance and then he has to grab the bar before he face-plants. Ian grabs his shoulder to steady him and then snatches his hands back right away.

“You don’t want me,” Mickey says.

“Yes I do,” Ian argues.

“Nah,” Mickey says. “I get it now. I’ll stop coming back for you.”

“Mickey,” Ian says desperately. “We can’t even talk about it?”

“Not tonight,” the bartender cuts in. “You think you’re going to have a serious conversation with him like this? Sorry dude. Sounds like you guys are in the middle of something, but I gotta make sure my customers are safe. You need to leave before I get security in here.”

“Oh my God,” Ian says incredulously. “Mickey, seriously?” He tries one last time.

Mickey waves at him. “Later, Gallagher.”

Mickey tells himself it doesn’t hurt at all to watch Ian shake his head and walk away. Mickey’s used to that sight anyway, right? What’s one more time?

Mickey drops his head onto the bar. He’s probably going to get some disease from the sticky counter. And Ian won’t even be there to take care of him. Jesus fuck. His life is shaping up to be so shitty from here on out. He thought he was past this part, the shitty part.

“You really are too drunk to stay here, though,” the bartender says apologetically.

“Fuck,” Mickey says. “Alright, Jesus. Let me find someone to go home with.”

“Wait, no,” she says. “I don’t think you can consent to sex in your state.”

Mickey can’t help it. He starts laughing. “Okay, one, when has _that_ ever mattered? And two, I can have sex in any fucking state.”

“I can’t, in good conscience, let you go home with somebody like this,” she says.

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, well, your good conscience made everything worse with Ian, so how about you sit this out and let me do my fucking thing, alright?”

He looks around. There’s a group of guys playing pool over to his left. Mickey passes on them. They’re all big guys with tons of facial hair and he’s not feeling it. He doesn’t bother looking at any of the chicks standing around. Even if they swung his way, he absolutely does not have the mental capacity to make himself fuck a chick tonight. That takes way too much energy.

There’s a little dude in the corner who laughs loudly enough to draw Mickey’s attention. He’s smaller than Mickey, which means he’d be safe. He’s got his back to the door and he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who knows why that’s a bad thing, so there’s almost no chance he’d be able to get the drop on Mickey. And he has red hair.

“Bingo,” Mickey says under his breath. He falls off the stool and tries to walk as normally as possible over to the dude. He makes himself smile. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Mickey.” He licks his lips and watches the guy’s eyes follow the movement.

“Byron,” he says.

“Cool,” Mickey says. “Want to take me home?”

As far as finesse goes, it’s not much, but Mickey bats his eyelashes a few times and it does the trick. He avoids looking at the bartender as he follows Byron out. He feels the same way he did when he seduced that guard—calculating, hollow. Robotic. At least this one’s a dude, so it’s not as bad as it could be.

They go back to Byron’s place. Mickey doesn’t really look around. There’s no way he’s letting this dude fuck him, so he tops even though he hates it. Brian or whatever his name is cuddles up to Mickey when they’re done, which is just not going to work. Mickey rolls away from him and pretends to be asleep. Mickey’s not actually going to sleep, though. Even a little dude could kill him asleep. Look what happened to Terry.

Mickey sobers up as the night goes on, and that is not a fun feeling. The hangover’s bad enough, but with every passing minute he feels more and more of what happened with Ian. Ian doesn’t want to marry him. Ian doesn’t think he’s good enough. Ian, somehow, doesn’t know how he feels. After everything Mickey’s done for him, after everything Mickey’s given him…Ian still doesn’t know.

Mickey bites the inside of his lip hard enough to taste blood. At least it’s a distraction for a little bit. He fucking hates this. It’s Mexico all over again, but even worse this time. How could Mickey be stupid enough to get his hopes up like that? He really thought Ian wanted to get married. He really thought it was real. He’s such a fucking idiot. Of course it all comes back to Ian thinking Mickey’s a lowlife piece of trash.

Though Mickey doesn’t think killing Terry would make him a lowlife piece of trash. He thinks that would be pretty understandable, and he showed a lot of fucking restraint over the years in _not_ killing Terry.

Mickey’s thought himself into an extremely foul mood by the time the little elf dude behind him finally wakes up. What kind of asshole sleeps so deeply with a total stranger in his bed? This kid’s going to end up dead.

“Hi,” he says, smiling like he’s all happy to wake up to Mickey’s face.

“You got any food?” Mickey asks.

Brandon or whoever he is blinks at him. “Um, yeah,” he says. “Do you like eggs?”

“Fucking love eggs,” Mickey says.

They spend the morning making awkward small talk over eggs and orange juice. Well, okay, the other dude does. Mickey spends the morning shoving food in his mouth and grunting. It’s not like he’s well-known for his conversation skills, especially when he’s hungover and _especially_ with everything that happened yesterday.

“Well, see you around,” Mickey says, grabbing his jacket off the chair.

“Wait,” Brad says. “What are your plans for today?”

“I gotta go get my shit from—” Mickey has to gulp a little to get the next part out. “My ex.”

“Oh. Well…” Ben shrugs. “You want a ride? And…my number?”

Mickey’s about to say no to both when he stops for a second. It might be a good thing to keep the dude’s number. Mickey doesn’t know how long it’ll take to find his own place. The PO said he could get Mickey into a halfway house, but that sounds like a nuclear option. Having somewhere better to sleep might be nice, assuming he ever gets to the point where he _can_ sleep.

As for the ride…well. Maybe Ian will see him with what’s-his-face. Maybe Ian will see that Mickey’s already moved on. Ian can talk about them always falling back together, but that’s not what actually happens. What happens is Mickey comes running back to Ian, and Ian decides whether or not it’s convenient for him to have Mickey around. So Mickey’s not doing the running back this time.

“Sure,” Mickey says. Then he remembers to smile at the guy again. He wasn’t really worried about the morning after, because he figured he’d never see the guy again. But now he needs to keep him on the line, at least until Mickey figures out his next move.

He knows it makes him a piece of shit. But that was never in question, so whatever. He has to do what he has to do to survive.

Mickey almost changes his mind when he sees what this dude—Byron, according to the contact name he put in Mickey’s phone—drives. It’s a fucking scooter.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey can’t help but ask. The dude is holding out a _helmet_ for him.

“What’s wrong?” Byron asks.

Mickey rubs his mouth. “Uh. Okay.” He figures he can work with this. He doesn’t have much other choice. He’s in it now.

He reaches around Byron to lay on the horn a few times when they get in front of the Gallagher house. It’s a dumbass little horn. Sounds like a fucking toy. Whatever. It’ll get Ian’s attention. Mickey makes sure to kiss…whatever his name is until Ian comes outside. Ian looks pissed. Good. Mickey peels himself away from the little guy.

“I’ll call you,” Mickey says. He will if he can’t find a better option.

“Okay,” the guy says, all dazed. Jesus, this guy must be starved for attention. Mickey knows he’s not that good of a kisser. Did he even check if the kid was over eighteen? Being in a bar isn’t a real guarantee.

Ian crosses his arms over his chest while Mickey walks up the stairs and the stupid little scooter scoots off. “Really, Mickey?” Ian asks. Mickey shoulders past him and heads into the house. Ian follows him. “Get that out of your system?”

Mickey shrugs, heading for the stairs. “Don’t know. We’ll see how I feel tonight. Might meet up with him again.”

“Again?” Ian echoes, trailing behind Mickey into their bedroom.

Ian’s bedroom.

“Yeah,” Mickey says blithely, shoving clothes into a garbage bag he brought with him for this purpose. He’s not even stopping to make sure the clothes are his. He can barely even see right now. “Again.”

He hopes Ian can’t tell how hard his heart is pounding. One night away from Ian and Mickey’s a fucking mess. But Mickey’s being strong here. He’s the one who’s staying away this time. The last thing he needs right now is for Ian to see right through him.

“Did you…sleep with him?” Ian asks.

“Yep,” Mickey confirms. His whole mouth is so dry. His hands want to shake but he won’t let them. “Tight little asshole,” he adds, just to say something crude.

“You…” Ian sounds like he just got the wind knocked out of him. “You cheated one me?”

Mickey stares at him. “Cheated on you?” He says hollowly. “No, Ian, I didn’t fucking cheat on you, because we’re fucking done.”

“We’re not done, Mickey.” Ian says that the way he always says things, firm and stubborn and ready to fight about it. It pisses Mickey off.

“Oh, ‘cause you get to decide that?” Mickey spits. “You get to call all the fucking shots, huh?”

Ian throws his hands up, frustrated. “What shots do I fucking call, Mickey? Not getting married? Okay, yeah, I made that decision for us. Sorry, but both people have to agree to get married. It’s kind of a requirement to get married.”

Mickey snorts. “Not in my experience.”

Ian shakes his head. “So that’s it?” He says, voice small. “Throw everything away because I need some time to think?”

“It’s not about the fucking piece of paper,” Mickey says, painfully aware of the last time he talked about marriage like that. All his anger blows away, leaving him hollow and tired. “It’s about me.”

“What about you?” Ian asks. He grabs at his hair. “I don’t know what you mean, Mickey.”

Mickey rubs his hands over his face. “You’re never gonna get it,” he says softly. His chest feels like it’s caving in. Ian was always the one who got Mickey when no one else did. Realizing he absolutely does not understand right now feels like someone’s pulling Mickey’s guts out.

“How can I get it if you won’t talk to me?” Ian asks. His voice is choked with tears and that hurts, too. Hearing Ian cry will probably always hurt, no matter what happens between them. Mickey’s throat is tight. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been the one walking away from Ian. Even when he was the one leaving, he never managed to stay away. But he has to this time. He can’t keep running back to Ian like some kind of fucking puppy.

“I gotta go,” Mickey manages to choke out. He can’t look at Ian.

“Mickey, no,” Ian begs. “Please, Mick.”

Mickey shakes his head, pressing his lips together. Jesus fuck, Ian’s not going to make this easy on him. Typical. Fucking bastard. “Not this time, Gallagher.”

“I love you,” Ian says, tears spilling down over his cheeks.

Mickey can’t breathe. He can’t believe this is fucking happening. Any second now he’ll wake up, back in his cell with Ian at his back. The whole thing was a dream. They can start over. None of this is real.

Someone slams the front door downstairs. Mickey presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. This is all real. This is happening.

“I know you do,” he tells Ian, because he really does. “But I don’t think you love me enough.” He grabs the bag and walks out without another word, avoiding Ian’s eyes. Ian doesn’t try to stop him this time. Mickey walks down the stairs completely numb.

“Hey, Mickey,” Lip says absently, fumbling with the straps on the baby carrier thing.

“Go check on Ian,” Mickey suggests quietly. “He’s gonna need it.”

He doesn’t explain himself any further. He walks out the front door and closes it softly behind himself.

Staying with Byron is far from ideal. Staying with anyone right now would be far from ideal, but Mickey has nowhere else to go. He knows the shine wears off for Byron pretty fast. Mickey drops any last shred of keeping up a charming façade to keep him hooked. What’s the kid going to do, kick Mickey out? Good luck with that.

Mickey doesn’t go out much. He knows he’s making a mess of this dude’s house and he knows he is far from pleasant, but whatever. It’ll teach the little shrimp not to hook up with random drunk guys at sketchy bars without taking the trouble to find out if they’re going to squat in his house afterward.

But sometimes he does go out. Mostly just when he needs more beer and weed and Byron can’t do it. Usually he does what Mickey asks him to, and Mickey honestly isn’t sure why. It’s not Mickey’s sparkling personality, that’s for fucking sure. Poor kid’s probably just never been fucked very well, so he thinks Mickey’s good at topping or something. Mickey can almost sympathize with him. He spent a decade following around the first guy who fucked him good. The only guy who fucked him at all, but whatever.

“I can’t go get you beer,” Byron says impatiently, holding a toolbox. It looks so absurdly out of place in his dainty hands that it actually makes Mickey laugh. “My scooter isn’t working.”

“And you think you’re gonna fix it?” Mickey asks dubiously. “No one that rides a Vespa can fix anything.” He’s not really sure why he adds, “I’ll take a look at it.” Maybe some of Ian’s people skills rubbed off on him. Maybe he’s just feeling a little antsy stuck in that little apartment. Sure, it’s nice, but it’s still kind of small, and Mickey’s spent enough time in cages to need some space.

“Really?” Byron asks, surprised. “Well…thanks.” He looks kind of suspicious. Good. He obviously needs to learn some street smarts. Mickey’s practically a saint for coming in and teaching him all this.

“I worked on the transport vans in the joint sometimes,” Mickey says. Lip’s a mechanic now and he and Mickey worked on stuff a few times, but Mickey’s not going to bring that up right now.

Byron gulps a little. “You…what? You were in prison?”

Mickey snorts. He can’t imagine the kind of life someone would lead that makes them bat an eye at people going to prison. Besides, he’s pretty sure everything about him screams prison—anyone who knows anything can tell Mickey’s been inside. “Yeah. Twice. Plus I went to juvie a few times.” He shouldn’t get a kick out of making the little guy piss himself, but he kind of does.

Byron licks his lips. “For like…for having weed? Or…?”

He’s too much of a pussy to come right out and ask. Mickey rolls his eyes. “For attempted murder, which was bullshit. If I’d meant to kill her, I would’ve.” That’s not embellishment to scare Byron. That’s the God’s honest truth. “And then the second time was for escaping. Well, and I guess to finish from the first time.” He shrugs. “Rolled on the cartel I was running with to come back for Ian.”

Byron’s eyes bug out. “Could cartel people be watching my house?”

Mickey shrugs again. “I don’t know. I guess. But honestly dude, if they were going to take me out, they probably would’ve done it _before_ I testified in federal court to put the top guys away for a few decades. I’m not all that worried about it.” Byron rubs at one temple. He practically drops the toolbox when he tries to hold it one-handed. Absolutely ridiculous. Mickey takes it away from him. “Look, if any cartel guys show up, I promise I’ll run down the street so they can blow my brains out outside, okay? Won’t get your rugs dirty.”

“Will they try to kill me?” Byron asks.

“Doubt it. You’re not what I’d call a threat.”

Mickey leaves Byron looking like he can’t tell if he should be offended or not and heads down the stairs to where Byron keeps his dumbass scooter. Mickey kind of wants to just leave it not working or maybe break it even worse, but he needs Byron to keep grocery shopping. So he roots around the toolbox and pokes around at the scooter for a while until he figures out how to get to the engine.

“What the fuck is that?”

Mickey looks up, one hand instinctively flipping the screwdriver around to use as a weapon. He relaxes right away. It’s just Carl.

“It’s a scooter,” Mickey says.

“Uh, is it yours?” Carl asks.

“Fuck no,” Mickey says scornfully. “Like I’d pay money for this.”

“I was gonna say…” Carl shakes his head. He looks at the building. “So is this where you’re staying now?”

“This is where I live,” Mickey says. It’s sort of true, he figures. Byron probably wouldn’t be thrilled to hear how permanent he makes it sound. Mickey’s not thrilled either, but it is what it is.

Carl wrinkles his forehead. “Man, I don’t get it. One minute, you and Ian are getting married, the next, you’re living with a dude who has a scooter?”

Mickey swallows hard and focuses on the scooter. “Yeah, well, ask Ian about that.”

“He knows he screwed up,” Carl says. “He misses you.”

“He send you over here to do his begging?” Mickey asks.

“No,” Carl says. “I was scouting corners.”

“There’s already a dealer on this block,” Mickey tells him. “His weed sucks, though.”

“I’m putting dealers away,” Carl says proudly.

“Why?” Mickey asks. “I need weed.”

Carl waves a hand impatiently. “Don’t you love Ian?”

Mickey stabs at the scooter way harder than he should if he’s trying to fix it. “Ain’t about how I feel. It’s about how he feels.”

“Well, then you should be fine. He loves you. I’ve seen Ian with other boyfriends. He even dated some of them for a long time. But he’s never loved anyone else but you. Honestly.”

Mickey sighs. “Yeah. Well. He’s got a fucked-up way of showing it sometimes.” He swipes at the sweat popping out on his forehead and shrugs. “I can’t keep coming back again and again, thinking he loves me, if he’s not gonna do anything to show me.”

Carl thinks that over. “I can respect that.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, surprised. Gallaghers usually stick together, no matter what logic you use.

“Yeah,” Carl says. “A man’s gotta have self-respect.”

Mickey snorts. He doesn’t know if he’d go that far. “Okay.”

But Carl still _is_ a Gallagher, because he adds, “Maybe if you give him another chance, he’ll do better.” Mickey gives him a look and Carl shrugs. “Well, he’s still my brother. I gotta try, I guess.”

Mickey rolls out his neck. “I’m busy here.”

Carl knows it’s a dismissal and doesn’t look offended. “Alright, fine. Can’t you at least think about it?”

“There’s not much else I think about,” Mickey admits quietly. He’s not sure why he’s admitting that to Carl, of all people, but he can’t really stop himself.

Carl at least has the decency to look like he feels kind of bad about that. He nods. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll send someone around here with good weed.”

Mickey shakes his head, but he smiles a little. “Thanks, man.”

He sighs as he watches Carl walk away. Mickey wasn’t lying. He can’t seem to make him stop thinking about Ian, no matter how hard he tries. He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle all this shit. He focuses on the scooter again and swears when he opens the gas cap.

“Oh, Jes—someone fucking pissed in here!”

Somehow, Mickey ends up agreeing to go to some concert with Byron a few days later. It’s less about keeping Byron happy and more about the place being four blocks from Ian’s house. Someone will probably see Mickey there with Byron. Ian will hear that Mickey’s still doing fine.

Mickey is definitely not doing fine. He feels like absolute fucking shit. But he’s dealing with it the way he deals with all his problems: he isn’t. He’s ignoring it until he can take a full breath again. It’s been eight days so far, and that pain behind his ribs hasn’t even let up at all. It fucking sucks.

Mickey showers and shaves and puts on deodorant _and_ cologne. It’s Byron’s cologne, so Mickey hates the smell, but at least it’ll prove they’re sharing shit. It’s not that Mickey necessarily wants to hurt Ian. But some jealousy on Ian’s end wouldn’t exactly devastate Mickey at this point. And yeah, Mickey knows that means he’s not really over Ian. Of fucking course he isn’t. There’s probably never going to be a day in Mickey’s entire life that he’s actually over Ian. All he can hope for at this point is minimizing the damage.

And then they walk inside and there’s Ian. He’s leaning against the bar and his legs are so long and his shoulders are so broad and Mickey’s stomach drops all the way to the floor. He fucking misses Ian so much. He can hear Ian’s laugh in his head without actually hearing it with his ears. His breath stutters away.

“Is that…?” Byron asks.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snarls.

Byron shakes his head and huffs and walks off to get a drink. Mickey hardly notices. His body feels like it’s shutting down. But he’s the one who left. He’s the one doing fine. So he makes himself strut over to Ian like nothing’s wrong.

“What you doing here?” He asks.

Ian shrugs. He’s got a dumb look on his face that he uses when he’s trying to play it cool. He knew Mickey would be here. Mickey doesn’t have a fucking clue how. And he has even less of a clue how to react to it. “I like this band,” Ian says.

“You’re fucking lying,” Mickey accuses.

Ian just raises an eyebrow. “Am I?” He asks. “Why, Mickey? Why do you think I’m here?”

Mickey’s not going to say it for him. He shakes his head and spins around to leave, but Ian stops him with a hand on his arm. He’s not restraining Mickey or even holding onto him. He’s just touching him. It feels like Mickey grabbed an electric fence. He has to close his eyes for a second before he gives in right there.

“Mickey,” Ian says. Mickey doesn’t turn around, but he knows Ian can see the tension in his shoulders. “I came for you,” Ian admits softly.

Mickey’s whole body shivers and he can’t help but turn toward Ian. “I’m here with…” Mickey can’t even think of his fucking name.

“Byron,” Ian supplies, biting down on a smug smile.

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I want you to come home, Mick,” Ian says, squaring his shoulders now that he’s got Mickey’s attention.

“Not my home,” Mickey says.

“Yes, it is,” Ian counters. “It’s your home and you’re my family.”

Mickey swallows hard. “No, I’m not. You made sure of that.”

“I have a lot of things I want to talk to you about,” Ian says. “Things I want to _tell_ you. Things I know. That I already knew before but I didn’t know I knew.”

Mickey shakes his head. “What?”

“I…” Ian looks unsure for the first time. “That didn’t really go how I practiced in the mirror.”

Mickey laughs a little despite himself. “You practiced in the mirror?” His chest is getting tight again. He’s drinking in the sight of Ian’s face and getting drunker than any beer could get him.

“Yeah,” Ian tells him. “I wanted to say the right things this time. I didn’t last time.”

Mickey bites his lip. “I don’t know.”

Ian’s face falls for a second, but then he nods. “Okay,” he says simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Mickey’s emotions are all jumbled around. He can’t completely figure out what’s happening. So he does what he always does. He lashes out. “Because I’m the fucking problem, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ian tries.

“Christ. Leave me alone.”

Ian looks like he’s about to say something, but he stops himself. He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says again. “Whatever you want, Mick.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to take this, all this agreement. He and Ian have always been push-and-pull, even in the good times. Ian going along with whatever he wants is weird.

“I’m going over there now,” Mickey says.

“Okay,” Ian says. It seems to be his go-to response. “I’ll be right here.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t want to go over to where Byron’s standing with his friends. Mickey doesn’t want to meet any of them. He doesn’t even want to talk to Byron. He goes to the other end of the bar, where it’s a lot less crowded. He gets a beer and downs it in two seconds. His hands are trembling.

He glances over at Ian. He’s still just leaning against the bar, hands in his pockets. Mickey looks over at Byron. He looks pissed about something, gesturing with his hands and his lip all curled up. Mickey can hear snatches of the conversations, mostly individual words like “gross”, “rude”, and “stupid.” Byron glances toward Mickey and Mickey realizes, heart sinking, that Byron’s over there talking shit about him.

Mickey does not generally care about what people think of him. He doesn’t actually really care what Byron thinks about him. He’s mostly only cared what Ian has ever thought of him. But he’s kind of raw and bruised right now, and this is just further confirmation that there is something fundamentally broken about Mickey.

Growing up, Mickey always thought the broken thing was being gay. Obviously that was the problem. But he doesn’t think of that as a problem anymore. It is what it is. _He_ is who he is. Being gay doesn’t mean he’s broken, even if Terry and a bunch of other assholes always thought so.

But now, in less than a week, he’s managed to lose Ian and some other random guy. It’s obvious that it’s Mickey himself who is just _wrong_. Being gay isn’t the problem. Being Mickey Milkovich is. No one’s ever going to want him. No one’s ever going to choose to keep him hanging around. Byron doesn’t actually know him and doesn’t want him around. Ian knows everything about him and doesn’t want him around. He can’t win.

He glances down for a second, trying to keep his cool. It’s not like he’s going to fucking burst into tears over that asshole complaining about him. But it’s the combination of that asshole complaining about him and Ian standing over at the bar and all of Mickey’s emotions coming to a head. He can’t get a full breath and he’s biting his lip hard enough to see stars.

He’s going to leave. He doesn’t know where he’ll go now, but he’s not sticking around with fucking Byron anymore. It’s pathetic enough that he did it this long. He lived the majority of his life in a house where people were apathetic to his presence at best and actively trying to harm him at worst. He’s done with that shit. When Mickey looks back up, Ian’s over at the table with Byron and his friends. Jesus, just what Mickey needs. The two of them swapping stories about how awful he is.

Ian says something. Byron nods, laughing. Ian nods back placidly. Mickey realizes what’s happening before Byron does, because Mickey knows Ian. That’s Ian’s pissed-but-throwing-you-off-guard face. Byron realizes it a half-second too late, right about when Ian’s fist is connecting with his face. Byron doesn’t realize anything after that, because Ian just fucking knocked him out cold.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey mutters. He leaves the empty glass on the bar and rushes over. He doesn’t really foresee any of Byron’s candy-ass friends doing much damage to Ian, but there _are_ four of them. Ian could probably take them all on, but Mickey’s never been able to see Ian in a fight without wading in.

The bouncer tries to get involved, but Mickey takes care of him. Hopefully this dude isn’t their main bouncer, because he goes down way too fucking easily. One of Byron’s friends starts fucking throwing beer bottles, which is just dirty and proves he’s a shit fighter. Mickey and Ian end up pressed back to back, and Mickey’s whole body releases some kind of tension he’s been holding all week.

How many times have they done this? Bar fights, cellblock brawls, whatever. Ian and Mickey have always come together to fight as one unit. Ian’s at his back, protecting him, and Mickey might cry if he weren’t in the middle of busting some heads.

Ian ends up on the ground, but Mickey makes short work of the guy who managed to drop him, and then no one else tries coming after them. The bar is pretty fucked up, chairs strewn all over and broken glass on the floor. They need to get out of there before the cops show up.

But Ian’s not getting up. He rolled up to his knees and he’s just sitting there for no fucking reason. “Let’s go,” Mickey urges. Ian knows better than hanging around when they got in a bar fight. They’ve been through this before.

“Mickey,” Ian says. “I love you.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “Cool. Not really the time.”

“Will you marry me?” Ian asks.

Mickey looks at him like he grew another head. “The fuck?”

Ian looks like a deer in headlights. “I thought—”

“Get the fuck off the ground and let’s go,” Mickey barks. “Cops’ll be here soon and we’re both on parole.”

“I—”

Mickey grabs Ian’s arm and hauls him up and out of the bar. “Jesus, Ian, you got the worst fucking timing,” Mickey fumes as they run down the street. “I cannot believe this. I mean, I guess I can. But what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“This is what you wanted!” Ian insists.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mickey hisses. He’s seeing red. He can’t be sure he’s not going to haul off and knock Ian out now after that fucking stunt. He runs faster. Ian keeps up easily, because he’s got legs like a fucking giraffe, and that makes Mickey even madder. Mickey doesn’t say another word until they get to the Gallagher house. He shoves Ian inside.

“I thought—” Ian starts.

“No, you shut the fuck up right now,” Mickey snarls. “You’re gonna fucking listen to me. I _told_ you it was never about getting married. It was because you didn’t think I was worth it. _Again_. You didn’t think I was enough. Every time, Ian. Every _fucking_ time. I come running back to you and you end up kicking me to the curb. You think some fucking bar fight proposal fixes everything? Just like that? It doesn’t fucking fix anything, because I _know_ it’ll happen again. No matter what the fuck I do, it’s _never_ enough for you.”

“It’s always enough!” Ian shoots back. “Mickey, I was trying to tell you what was wrong with me. I was trying to _ask_ you if we could take _five minutes_ to talk about it and take a breather.”

“Five minutes to talk about it that you didn’t think we needed before,” Mickey points out. “ _You_ brought it up, Ian.”

“Because I wanted to protect you!”

“That’s bullshit,” Mickey says. “You didn’t want my ass thrown back in jail so you didn’t have your fucking security blanket anymore.”

Ian rears back like Mickey hit him. “You don’t really think I think of you that way.”

Mickey feels empty again. They were fighting back-to-back and he felt ready to fly, but the adrenaline’s crashing now and all he sees is Ian not getting it, thinking he can just talk his way out of it again. “I don’t fucking know, Ian. You tell me you love me but you don’t really back it up. You said you wanted to know how I feel. How can you say that to me? How can you fucking doubt me after everything?”

Ian’s got tears in his eyes. He blinks them away. “Mickey. I know this is my fault. I’m so sorry. But I—Jesus. I know you’ve done more for me than I have for you. I know I don’t deserve it. But I love you, Mickey. I _trust_ you. I wouldn’t care if you kill someone. Especially not fucking Terry. I only cared that you could get in trouble for it. I wanted to take care of you. Like you always fucking take care of me.”

Mickey’s got a lump in his throat. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. He comes closer cautiously. Mickey doesn’t punch him or anything. Mickey doesn’t even know how he feels right now. “Mick,” Ian says. “I don’t doubt you. I _don’t._ I know how much you love me.It really was just about marriage. Not about you. You’re the only person I would ever even _consider_ marrying.”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” Mickey says dully.

“ _Yes_ , Mickey. Honestly.” Ian puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders and then slides them up to Mickey’s face when Mickey doesn’t object. “I don’t know how you can say you want to marry me. I don’t even know who I’ll be next week. I’m sick, Mickey. I’ll never get over—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mickey cuts him off angrily. “I’ve _never_ had an issue with the bipolar stuff. I’ve always tried to help you.”

“But I’m not a fucking kid!” Ian says. He takes his hands off Mickey’s face so he can wave them around. “It’s not bullshit, Mickey. It’s something that’s real and happening to me and _I can’t control it_. I can—I can manage it. But we can’t fix it and we can’t cure it and it makes a big fucking difference. It changes who I fucking am and I don’t know if I can promise to be someone you can love all the time. I don’t want to be Monica.” His voice wobbles a little and Mickey can’t take that. He wants to touch Ian, but he makes himself stop. He’ll give him words, but he won’t touch him.

“You’re never gonna fucking be Monica,” he says fiercely. “But Ian, I’ve been right here the whole time with all that. I don’t care if it changes how you act. It doesn’t change _you_. I know what I’m getting here and I’m fine with it.”

“But that’s part of the problem,” Ian bursts out. “You act like it’s—like you have to watch me. Make sure I’m following all your rules about it. You even told the fucking PO you help take care of me. Like I can’t do it my fucking self.”

Mickey gapes at him. “I just did that because I needed something to say so he’d let us stay together, you asshole.”

“I know that,” Ian says. “But it just feels like somewhere in your head, you’re thinking about how you _do_ have to take care of me.”

Mickey snorts. “Nah. I know you don’t fucking need me.” His voice comes out even bitterer than he’d meant it to.

Ian looks at him for a second and shakes his head. He puts his hands back on Mickey’s face. “I do need you,” he says softly. He leans in and hovers with his lips an inch from Mickey’s. “God, Mick, I can’t do any of this shit without you. Waking up every morning without you here, going to work, dealing with it all…I know you need more than what I give you. I’m sorry. I want you with me, all the time. I’m not saying I never want to marry you. I just wanted to have a real conversation with it because I made us rush into it.”

“’Cause you think I’m a lowlife piece of trash,” Mickey says. He refuses to close the distance between their lips. He’s not doing it this time. He closes his eyes so he can’t see Ian. If he looks at him, he’ll kiss him.

Ian pulls back. Mickey’s glad, but he also mourns the loss. “That is not what I think of you,” Ian says quietly. “Not at all. I thought you killed Terry and I was so fucking proud of you. I’m _always_ proud of you, Mickey. You’re amazing. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I wanted to be the one to _keep_ you safe, ‘cause you deserve it and you’re always doing it for me.”

Mickey can feel himself relenting. He doesn’t want to. But oh, he so does. His whole body is reaching out for Ian. He has to lace his fingers together behind his back so he doesn’t break and touch him. He knows exactly how good touching Ian would feel, but once he touches him, he won’t be able to stop, and he’ll be right back on the merry-go-round of giving up everything and getting kicked in the teeth as thanks.

“I thought…” Mickey blows out a breath. He doesn’t want to admit this. It feels so fucking stupid. But Ian wants to fucking talk. Fine. Mickey will talk. “I thought you killed Terry for me. To protect me. And I thought it was the best thing you could’ve ever done for me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t,” Ian says honestly.

It almost makes Mickey laugh. Here’s Ian apologizing for not committing a murder. Jesus. Mickey swallows hard. “I’m always the one who comes crawling back,” Mickey says, trying to keep his voice even. “And you always end up making me regret it.”

Anguish clouds Ian’s face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Mickey says. “I want you to fucking stop doing it.”

Ian looks up fast. “Are you giving me another chance?”

Mickey rubs his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits. His stomach hurts, his chest hurts, everything hurts while he’s standing here looking at Ian and trying to keep himself away. “Fuck, Ian. I’m so fucking tired. I’m so fucking tired of being away from you. But I’m not—I can’t keep doing this. I gotta have some fucking self-respect.”

He’s thinking about what Carl said. And Mickey’s never had any self-respect before, so he’s not sure how to get any or what to do with it if he does, but he has to at least try. Doesn’t he deserve that? He’s not actually sure. He knows there isn’t much he does deserve in this fucking life, but he’s pretty sure even _he_ deserves to not be treated like he’s disposable over and over again.

“Mickey,” Ian says. He takes Mickey’s hands. “I don’t know if I’m ready to get married. But I can tell you right now. If you come home, if you let me, I will never, _ever_ give you a reason to regret it. Ever again. I will spend every day making up for it and protecting you and loving you.” He leans in and kisses Mickey, not waiting for Mickey to do it this time. Mickey doesn’t push him away. God, he missed Ian’s lips. How could he miss this so much in a week? Ian kisses him long and deep and desperate. “Make me beg,” Ian says, resting his forehead against Mickey’s. “I’ll do it. I’ll get on my hands and knees.”

“Words don’t fucking mean anything. That’s not what I want,” Mickey says. “Well, I mean, you can get on your knees for something else. Not fucking begging.”

Ian laughs, but he’s crying, too. He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair and Mickey leans into it, closes his eyes. “God, Mick.” Ian sniffles. “Words do mean something. To me, anyway. Every time I hear you say you love me, that—it matters, Mickey.”

Mickey rests his face against Ian’s neck. He can finally take a full breath again. He’s never breathed easier than when he’s breathing in Ian. “Guess I should’ve let you tell me before,” he admits. “At the courthouse.”

“I know why you were so mad,” Ian says.

“I was…” Mickey huffs. He hates talking about this shit. But this is Ian. “I was fucking hurt, man. Thought it was happening again.”

“It’s never happening again,” Ian promises, tightening his arms around Mickey. “I know why you thought that. I know you can’t just take my word for it. Not after all the shit I’ve pulled.”

“I pulled a lot of shit, too,” Mickey allows, because it’s definitely true. He has kind of a hard time listening to Ian blaming himself for everything. Yeah, in the past few years, it’s been Ian taking off and everything, but it’s not like Mickey was some perfect prince from the get-go. Mickey never even considers Ian running off to the Army as Ian leaving him, partially because of the bipolar part but mostly because Mickey deserved it and didn’t do anything to keep Ian around.

“Fine, you pulled shit, but it was when we were kids,” Ian counters. “When your dad was still around and could’ve killed you. No, Mickey, this is on me. And I’m gonna prove it this time, okay? Not just words. I guess I use words too much because I care about words. But you’re really more of an actions guy. I know that. So I’m going to prove it. I’m going to make sure you know. That’s why I went to that bar tonight. I needed to win you back this time.”

Mickey pushes back a little. “How’d you know I was gonna be there?”

“Oh.” Ian looks embarrassed now. “Um. Well, I—okay. This is going to sound kind of crazy. I, um, I found Byron on Facebook, but he had his profile set to private and I didn’t think he’d accept my request. So Liam helped me make this fake profile and he accepted that request and I sort of…stalked you guys. He said you were going to that concert. So. I went, too.”

“Holy shit,” Mickey says. “That’s like straight-up cuckoo’s nest, dude. What were you gonna do, Single White Female him?”

“I know,” Ian says. “But I mean…well, it wouldn’t have been that hard.” Ian’s smile stretches across his face like the sun coming up in the morning. It’s Mickey’s favorite sight in the whole fucking world. “Let’s face it. You got a type, Mick.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Fucking arrogant as shit.”

Ian laughs, a happy sound that fills up Mickey’s whole chest. Ian kisses him, then again and again. “I missed you so much, Mickey,” he murmurs. “I love you. I don’t ever want to be without you again.”

“I missed you, too,” Mickey tells him. “I just got that other guy ‘cause I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And I thought maybe you’d get jealous.”

“Yeah, I got jealous,” Ian promises. “I pissed in his gas tank.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh. “Oh, fuck, that was you?”

“Felt bad about it,” Ian says. “I mean, not like I can blame him for falling for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he definitely didn’t fall for me,” Mickey points out.

“Yeah, I said _felt_ bad,” Ian says. “Not anymore. He talked shit about you. He’s lucky all I did was piss in his fucking scooter.”

“Well, you did also knock him out,” Mickey reminds him.

“Sorry I knocked out your rebound fling,” Ian says, mock-seriously.

“It was really fucking hot,” Mickey tells him.

Ian throws his head back and laughs. Mickey ducks his head, but he can’t stop smiling. This is all he’s ever wanted. Just the two of them, together and safe and laughing. He fought hard for it. He’s not going to stop fighting for it. But he can let Ian take the reins for a little while.

Ian leans in and kisses him again, a lot more hungrily than before. “Now,” Ian says between kisses. “Can we go upstairs and make up for the eight fucking days we lost?”

Mickey presses his body closer to Ian’s. Handing Ian the reins was obviously a great idea if this is what he comes up with. “Fuck yeah,” Mickey says fervently. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had anything in my ass?”

Ian’s hands clench in the back of Mickey’s shirt for a second and then he’s pushing Mickey toward the stairs, still kissing him. “Oh, God,” he groans. “You gotta be dying for it, huh?”

Mickey tugs at Ian’s shirt. “Stop fucking patting yourself on the back and do something about it,” he demands.

Ian’s mouth is hot against Mickey’s, but it curves up into a smile. “You know, one of Byron’s complaints was how pushy you are in bed,” he informs Mickey, sucking a hickey into his neck before continuing up the stairs. “Proving that he’s a fucking idiot.”

“You saying I’m _not_ pushy in bed?” Mickey asks, pulling Ian’s belt through the loops. Mickey is definitely pushy. He knows that about himself without a doubt.

“Oh, no, you are,” Ian confirms, pulling Mickey’s shirt off too. “He’s a fucking idiot for not appreciating what a good thing he had.”

Mickey shivers a little. Ian pushes him up the last two stairs, eyes dark with want, and Mickey’s brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. “Stop fucking talking about that little piece of shit,” Mickey growls. “Get the fuck in the bedroom and fucking fuck me.”

“Anything you want,” Ian pants in his ear. “I got a lot of making up to do.”

They wander back downstairs after a while in search of food. It looks like there’s some kind of Gallagher sibling council going on down there. Mickey didn’t know anyone was home. He and Ian were not quiet, and there are still various pieces of their clothing strewn along the stairs. He’d be embarrassed if this weren’t the best thing in the world.

“Oh, thank God you’re back!” Liam says when he sees Mickey.

Mickey blinks. “What, you miss me or something?” He jokes.

“Yeah,” Liam says, like admitting that doesn’t even matter. “No one else could help me with my math homework.”

Ian grins and rubs at Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey has no idea how to take that. “You helped Ian be a stalker, huh?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Someone had to do something to get you back. He was just being pathetic.”

Mickey looks over at Ian, who’s starting to go a little red. Ian shrugs. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Mickey shouldn’t be happy about that. He kind of is, though. “Hey, Mickey,” Lip says. “Glad you guys are back together or whatever, but I wanted everyone in here because I have an announcement.”

Debbie and Ian share a little eyeroll, as if either of them have any room to judge someone for being dramatic. “Okay,” Debbie says impatiently. “What’s the big _announcement_?”

“Tami and I…” Lip pauses dramatically and Mickey scoffs. This whole fucking family. “…are moving to Milwaukie.”

No one says anything for a beat. “Why?” Carl asks, dumbfounded.

“Her family gave us a house there,” Lip says. “It’ll be good for us. A fresh start, out on our own.”

Silence again. “Oh,” is all Debbie finally manages to say.

“Dumb idea,” Mickey mutters. He didn’t really expect anyone to hear him, but Lip frowns.

“Why?”

Mickey looks around at everyone, but they’re all avoiding his eyes. He knows they’re all thinking the same thing he is, but they’re all being pussies and won’t say it. Whatever. Mickey has no problem being the bad guy. Besides, Ian looks all sad about Lip leaving, so now Mickey’s kind of pissed at Lip about it. They just fixed their shit—or at least, they just agreed to work through their shit—and Ian shouldn’t be sad so soon.

“Well, for one thing, Milwaukie sucks ass. But mostly, this chick just takes off whenever she feels like it,” Mickey points out. “So you’re gonna end up out there alone with a fucking baby. That what you want?”

“Oh, like I’m going to take relationship advice from _you_ ,” Lip scoffs.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Just ‘cause our relationship’s shitty doesn’t mean yours can’t be, too.”

“Our relationship isn’t shitty,” Ian says defensively. After a pause, he adds, “Not _that_ shitty, anyway. Not anymore. It _won’t_ be anymore.”

“There’s a vote of confidence,” Debbie says under her breath.

“So none of you support me?” Lip asks. “Really?”

“Lip,” Debbie starts. “It’s just…” She sighs and looks to her brothers for help.

“What about a support system?” Ian asks. “Your AA meetings and everything.”

“They have AA in Milwaukie,” Lip says stubbornly. “I can’t believe you guys are all being such dicks about this.”

“I just don’t know if moving is going to fix the problems you think it will,” Ian says logically. “Your shit’s still your shit, even in a different place.” He kind of looks at Mickey. Yeah, they know that all too well.

“We’re going,” Lip says. “I don’t need anyone’s fucking permission.”

“Okay,” Debbie says placatingly. “Then good luck and we’ll miss you.”

“When are you leaving?” Carl asks.

“End of the month,” Lip says.

“Cool,” Carl says. It’s his version of support, probably. Debbie’s kid is yelling something from the bathroom and Lip’s baby starts screaming upstairs, so their little family meeting disperses. Mickey follows Ian into the kitchen for some food. A brawl and three rounds of fucking really builds up the appetite.

“Milwaukie,” Ian says, shaking his head while he makes a sandwich. “He didn’t even like going away to college, and he was a train ride away.”

“Nah, it won’t happen,” Mickey says.

“What do you mean?” Ian asks, handing Mickey half the sandwich.

“End of the month? It’s the beginning of the month now,” Mickey points out, mouth full. “They gone a month without some kind of fight the whole time they’ve been together?”

Ian considers that while he chews. “I guess not,” he says. “But maybe having something they’re looking forward to will be good for them.”

Mickey scoffs. “He’s not looking forward to it. He wouldn’t be begging you all to tell him it’s a good idea if he thought it was.”

Ian blinks. “That’s…really true. Especially for Lip.”

Mickey shrugs and takes the last bite of Ian’s half of the sandwich right out of Ian’s hand. “Yeah. I know. And listen. You ever try to make me move to Milwaukie, I’ll murder you.”

Ian’s giving Mickey this soft little smile that makes Mickey blush a little. Ian comes in close and wraps his arms around Mickey, buries his face in Mickey’s neck. “I missed you so much, Mick,” Ian murmurs against Mickey’s skin. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Mickey takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of Ian. He swallows for a second against the wave of pain from all those days apart, thinking it was really the end and he’d never have this again. He gives Ian a tight squeeze, reminding them both it wasn’t true. “Me too.”

Mickey walks into the house to the sound of Carl, Debbie, and Frank all screaming at each other. It’s not like that’s unusual, but it’s definitely still fucking annoying.

“What the fuck?” Mickey says, all annoyed.

“My own _daughter_ thinks she should get to control me,” Frank snaps.

“Yeah, probably because you’re a fucking idiot who needs someone controlling him,” Mickey points out.

“Debbie doesn’t get to just decide how we spend the money Fiona left _all_ of us!” Carl says.

Debbie looks murderous. “She left it for _me_ to take care of everyone.”

“So it was for all of us!” Carl says.

“Why don’t you just fucking call her and find out?” Mickey cuts in. “Not like she moved to the moon or something.”

He gets a bunch of sour looks in return. Well, at least they’re not yelling anymore. “Do you even live here?” Frank asks.

“Do you?” Mickey shoots back. “Least I was invited.”

“That’s a good point,” Debbie says. “And he pays for stuff.”

“So did someone really finally get the drop on Terry Milkovich?” Frank asks. “Bets are on his own progeny.” He raises his eyebrows. “You know everyone assumes it was you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “And if it was, do I look dumb enough to tell a fucking chatterbox like you?”

“Do you really want us to answer that?” Carl asks. Mickey flips him off.

“Just glad he’s dead,” Mickey says. “Sick of worrying about him.”

“As are we all,” Frank says, raising an empty fist instead of a glass. It’s actually weird to see him without a beer, but Mickey’s willing to bet Debbie refused to let him get at the fridge.

“You want me to kick him out?” Mickey asks Debbie.

Frank sputters. “What are you, the bouncer?”

“Can be,” Mickey says.

Debbie waves a careless hand. “He won’t find anything he wants to steal. I don’t care.”

“Alright,” Mickey says. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He heads upstairs to the sound of Frank blustering about the government or what the fuck ever. Mickey learned to tune out conspiracy theories by the time he was nine.

“Hi,” Ian says from Liam’s room. He’s got Freddie in his lap, Franny on the floor, and Liam beside him on the bed. “Thought I heard you downstairs.”

Mickey leans down for a kiss. Not like he could ever get enough of Ian’s kisses since he let himself have them, but since reuniting, they can’t seem to go more than ten minutes without kissing. “Don’t know how you heard anything over their fucking arguing.”

“That’s why we stayed up here,” Liam informs him. “Too sick of dealing with Frank.”

“And Debbie didn’t stiff us on any money.” Ian frowns. “But that’s because she didn’t give _me_ any money.”

“It happened forever ago,” Liam says, nudging his toe at a car Franny’s playing with on the ground. “You guys were both still locked up. Think she put some in your commissary.”

“So why are they still fighting about it?” Mickey asks.

“Because why not?” Ian counters with an eyeroll.

Mickey snorts. “I thought you were working all day today.”

Ian sighs. “Yeah, I was supposed to. They cut my hours again.”

“Shit,” Mickey says. “They say why?”

“Just all the same shit. Too many people, not enough hours. Even though they never schedule enough people at the same time to actually run the desk and still keep everything clean. I was just getting too close to overtime and they won’t let me get that.”

“Fuckers,” Mickey says. “You want to find something else?”

Ian busies himself with smoothing down what little hair Freddie has. “Doubt anywhere else would take me.” He gives Mickey a sad little smile. “Guess I could always go back to dancing.”

Mickey shoots him a dark look. “Yeah, I don’t think so. _I’ll_ go work there before you go back.” Ian and Liam both crack up laughing at that thought. “What?” Mickey demands, being extra serious and intimidating because it’s making them laugh. “You don’t think I’d be good at it?”

Liam spares a second to look at Ian, just to make sure Mickey’s still joking. Ian’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over Freddie’s head, so Liam keeps laughing, too. “I saw you dance in the kitchen last night,” Liam confesses. “It was not good.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and shoves at Ian’s shoulder lightly. “Never got any complaints from this one.”

Ian gives him a big, dopey smile and tugs at Mickey’s shirt until he leans down for a kiss. Mickey can feel Freddie’s little fists against his stomach and it makes him feel weird. “No complaints at all,” Ian promises, and Mickey forgets all his discomfort.

“Is Lip really gonna leave?” Liam asks. He’s looking down at Franny, focusing really hard on the cars she’s playing with, but his voice doesn’t come out nearly as unaffected as he probably thinks it does.

“I don’t know,” Ian says honestly. “Right now he says he is.”

Liam picks at a loose string on the bedspread. “So everyone’s just going to start leaving one by one?” He looks up with big, worried eyes. “Am I gonna end up alone here with Frank?”

Ian’s face falls. “Aw, buddy,” he says, wounded. “I would _never_ let that happen. I promise.”

“I don’t know where the hell we’d go,” Mickey agrees. “Free to live here.”

“And if we _did_ happen to go somewhere, we’d take you with us,” Ian promises. He raises his eyebrows at Mickey, prompting him.

“Sure,” Mickey says, much less enthusiastically. It’s not like he’s got a problem with Liam. He likes the kid, as far as kids go. But he doesn’t hate the idea of someday living _alone_ with Ian. They’ve never actually tried that yet, unless you count their prison cell as alone. And Mickey does not.

“Really?” Liam asks. Mickey can’t remember how old he is—twelve? nine? seven? he doesn’t know kids’ ages—but he sounds so young right now.

Honestly, Mickey doesn’t spare a lot of thought for Ian’s siblings. He’ll help them out if he sees they need something and there’s no one else to do it, but it’s mostly out of obligation for Ian. Right now, though, he’s looking at a little kid who watched the most stable adult influence he’s ever known walk away _without saying goodbye_ and is facing another one taking off. Mickey never had any stable adult influences, so he has no idea how that feels. His own father died and Mickey was relieved to the point of giddiness. But he can imagine it’s not the best feeling in the world.

Ian looks like he’s gearing up for some huge declaration of brotherly love. Mickey doesn’t know Liam well enough to know if he’s into that kind of thing. He’s a Gallagher, so probably. If nothing else, he’s lived with Ian for however many years, so he can’t be completely unused to it. But Mickey’s not sure _he’s_ up for it. It’ll probably end in Ian making Mickey hold the baby while he hugs Liam, and Mickey is not about to hold the baby unless absolutely necessary. So he jumps in before Ian can.

“You can wipe your own ass, right?” He asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Liam says, sounding like he’s kind of offended that Mickey’s questioning this.

Mickey shrugs. “So no reason not to bring you along somewhere.”

Liam ducks his head, smiling a little. Ian does the exact same fucking thing when he’s happy about something but doesn’t want to go overboard. That makes Mickey like Liam more, just from sharing an expression with Ian. He doesn’t know if that’s a weird thing to think.

“Okay,” Liam says, playing it nonchalant. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Mickey echoes with a nod. He spares a glance over to Ian. Ian’s got his chin resting lightly on Freddie’s head, his face all screwed up in a look that means he thinks Mickey’s being incredibly endearing. Mickey rolls his eyes at Ian and Ian just smiles at him. It’s not a big, silly grin like Mickey just did something funny. It’s this soft look, so full of love it takes Mickey’s breath away for a second.

“Cool,” Ian repeats softly. He shifts Freddie around to one side so he can take Mickey’s hand and give it a light squeeze. Mickey can’t completely hide the smile that plays around his lips, and he looks over at Ian and sees the same smile on his face.

Mickey doesn’t really know how Ian convinced him to come to this block party thing, except that it probably has to do with how fucking whipped Mickey is. If Ian’s supposed to be making shit up to Mickey, this absolutely counts as a strike against him, because it is so not something Mickey wants to do. It’s some big barbeque thing in someone else’s neighborhood, some chick Debbie’s fucking or trying to fuck or something like that. Mickey’s eyes glazed over during the explanation.

Admittedly, it’s not _completely_ terrible. Ian’s been making sure Mickey always has a beer in his hand, and they’re eating cookies and burgers and sitting on a chair someone’s kid apparently made in woodshop, which led Mickey to make a joke about wood that made no one except Ian laugh. He’s the only one Mickey cares about making laugh, anyway, so Mickey’s feeling pretty good.

The sun’s dipping down and it’s getting late. Carl took off already and Liam’s back from running around with his little friends from school. “We good?” Mickey asks, which is his way of asking if they can leave yet.

“They’re doing fireworks,” Ian says pleadingly.

Mickey makes a face. “We can go in the backyard and I’ll shoot a few glass bottles. Sounds exactly the same.”

“Please?” Ian asks, like Mickey wasn’t already set to stay longer as soon as Ian implied he wanted to.

Mickey blows out a big sigh like he’s doing Ian a huge favor. “Fine.”

Ian grins and gives Mickey a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Mick.”

Somehow, Mickey ends up walking back to the Gallagher house alone to get blankets for them all to sit on during the firework show. This would be another example of Ian failing to make shit up to Mickey, except Mickey doesn’t really mind all that much. He could use a break from the crowd, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Besides, Mickey’s not actually keeping a tally of what Ian’s doing to make things up to him. Mostly it’s just being together that makes up for anything bad. Waking up together, working through shit together, lying in bed and complaining about work—that’s all Mickey really needs, day after day.

Mickey opens the door and finds Lip in the kitchen. Everyone else is still at the block party, besides Carl who’s out doing God only knows what, but Lip left a while ago to put the kid to bed. So he’s alone in the room, and for some reason there aren’t any lights on. “The fuck?” Mickey asks, part question and part greeting.

“Oh, hey,” Lip says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the party?” His voice is kind of weird. A few months ago, Mickey wouldn’t have even noticed, but he’s been living in the same house as Lip for almost six months now. Contrary to popular belief, Mickey’s not a complete idiot. He picks up on things sometimes. He just doesn’t always choose to care about those things.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey says, trying to figure out what’s going on. “Just came to get some blankets. Firework show or what the fuck ever.”

“There’s some in the closet over there,” Lip reports. He gestures with his chin and that’s when Mickey notices the open bottle of whiskey in his hand. Oh, fuck.

“Whatcha doing?” Mickey asks, wondering what he’s supposed to do. Generally speaking, Mickey doesn’t really believe when people say they’re giving up drinking. Sure, plenty of people _should_. Maybe if Terry had ever tried giving up drinking, he wouldn’t have ended up getting shot and basically dumped in a grave with no fanfare. But Mickey’s never actually seen someone stop drinking. Not for real, not long-term.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t realize this is a problem, if for no other reason than it’ll make Ian sad. That’s a reason Mickey takes pretty seriously. They’re in such a fucking good place right now, and Mickey’s pissed at anything that threatens to wipe the smile off Ian’s face.

Lip makes a noise halfway between a sniffle and a laugh. It’s an ugly sound. “You were right,” he says, voice hollow. “Tami left again. No Milwaukie. No house. No happy family.”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Well, she kept coming back before, right?” He’s thinking of him and Ian, how many times he thought it was over for good. “Why not this time, too? You could still move there later.”

“Oh, no, _she’s_ going to Milwaukie,” Lip says. “She’s gone. Got a job there already, has the house waiting. Left Freddie and took off.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a second. “Man, I was a fugitive in Mexico and look at us. Milwaukie’s nothing.”

Lip shakes his head. “It’s not the same, though, is it? I mean, you guys had an actual relationship before all that shit went down. Went through coming out and Ian’s diagnosis and everything. We…” He huffs. “We fucked a few times and had a kid. It’s not—” He cuts himself off, eyes shiny with tears.

Mickey’s trying to figure out how much of the whiskey is gone. It’s not much, as far as he can tell. Lip’s barely even slurring. His voice is coming out a little slower than usual, but he’s not _drunk_ -drunk.

“Alright,” Mickey says slowly. “So…” He sighs and pulls out a chair, resigning himself to a full conversation. “Look, obviously I’m not the guy you go to for a heart-to-heart. But I don’t want Ian seeing you like this. So I guess I’m handling this.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m gonna lay all the cards on the table, okay? Don’t get pissed.”

“Obviously I can’t promise that,” Lip says.

“Alright, well, whatever. I’m doing it anyway. I never really liked that chick. She’s a bitch. And sure, most chicks I know are. I don’t think being a bitch is really a bad thing, not all the time, anyway. I think more chicks should be bitches when it’s good for them.”

“Can you get to the point?” Lip asks irritably. Mickey will give him a pass. Because he’s drunk and his girl took off and because Mickey can admit he got a little stuck on the bitch issue.

“She could never handle the Gallagher crazy, you know? She couldn’t take it. She ran off because she didn’t want to deal with all this shit. And you can say you wanted to move to Milwaukie all you want, but you didn’t. None of you are good are being away from each other. Honestly, I give Fiona a year before she’s back here again. You guys all fucking…need each other or whatever. So you can’t make it work with someone who can’t handle your family, man.”

“So are you saying you can handle the Gallagher crazy?” Lip asks.

Mickey snorts. “Uh, the Gallagher crazy is nothing compared to the Milkovich fuckedness.”

Lip tips his head. “I guess that’s true. Does that mean Ian handles your family?”

Mickey shrugs. “I mean, yeah. My dad tried to fucking kill us. More than once. And it couldn’t keep us apart. When me and Ian were running from each other, it was never because we couldn’t take each other’s shit. It was always our own shit. And maybe she’s running away because of her own shit and just blaming your shit. But I don’t know. I don’t see how you’re gonna be able to be with someone who complains that there are too many people in the house. There’s _always_ too many people in the house. And look at her solution—move away? Ditch all your brothers and sisters? Just proves she doesn’t get it.”

Lip looks down at the bottle of whiskey. “I think I might be one of those people who never gets to find someone.”

Mickey can’t help but roll his eyes. “Your whole family is so fucking dramatic. Ian left me at the fucking border in a _dress_ , okay? Least this chick left you in your own house and your own pants.”

Lip starts laughing. “God, your life has been so incredibly fucked.”

“Fucking tell me about it,” Mickey agrees.

Lip shakes his head, laughter dying down. “How’m I supposed to raise Freddie alone?”

Mickey shrugs. “Debbie’s got a kid on her own. Fiona did it for all of you ungrateful fuckers. I got an ex-wife somewhere with a kid who may or may not be mine. People raise kids on their own all the time. Besides,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes again. “Not like you’re doing it alone. Fucking idiot. You think Debbie and Ian are gonna let that happen? Shit, even Carl and Liam will take care of that kid. Wouldn’t be surprised if you convinced Fiona to come back just to raise another one.”

“Nah, Fi’s earned her own life,” Lip says. He gives Mickey a sideways little look. “You gonna help too?”

He sounds like he’s just busting Mickey’s balls, probably doesn’t expect a real answer, but Mickey thinks he might need to remind Lip that he’s never going away. It’s not like Lip’s been hinting that he thinks Mickey will, but still. Mickey kind of just likes repeating it so it’s out there in the universe or whatever. He and Ian are on the same page about not being apart anymore. Just took them a little while to figure out they were reading the same book or however that metaphor shakes out.

“Yeah, probably,” Mickey admits. “Thought everyone knew how whipped I was by now. Ian asks me to, I’ll do it.”

He’s half-expecting Lip to make some kind of crack about it, call him a pussy or something, act like it’s stupid like he did that time Mickey was holding the baby. Lip doesn’t. He smiles wistfully. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We all know that by now.” It’s obvious he’s kind of jealous about it. Mickey can’t imagine either of them would have believed, as kids, they’d be happy about being whipped.

Mickey nods once, decisively. “Good.” He reaches across the table and takes the whiskey bottle away from Lip. Lip doesn’t fight him. Mickey stands up. “You good? I can go and you’re not gonna blow your brains out or raid our room to try to find more booze?”

“No, I’m good,” Lip promises. “I’m gonna call my sponsor right now.”

Mickey doesn’t really know what that means, but it seems like a good thing for Lip. “Where’s your kid?” Mickey thinks to ask. “Someone sober need to be here to deal with him?”

Mickey has some vague memories of his mom trying to give him a bath once when she was completely bombed. He was really little, and she practically drowned him. It’s the kind of memory he only ended up with because he hated it so much. Mickey’s pretty sure babies as young as Lip’s kid can’t actually remember shit, but a baby that little probably shouldn’t have to go through it in the first place.

The look Lip gives him isn’t one Mickey’s really used to. It’s the kind of look that means he just did something right, like Lip’s surprised he thought of something important like that. The last time someone other than Ian gave him a look like that, it was while Ian was going through all his diagnosis shit the first time. It was Lip who gave him that look back then, actually.

“No, he’s okay,” Lip says. “He shouldn’t wake up for another few hours. Even if he does, he’ll probably just need me to put the bottle in his mouth. I’m not too drunk to handle that.”

“Alright,” Mickey says, flushing a little under that look. He gets embarrassed sometimes when people realize he cares about shit. Not that he really cares about Lip’s kid. He just knows Ian would want him to ask something like that.

“Go ahead,” Lip says. “I’ll be fine.”

Mickey takes him at his word. He grabs the blankets out of the closet and brings the whiskey with him. There’s plenty of booze at the block party, but Mickey doesn’t think he should leave it here with Lip, even if Lip says he’s fine now. Not just for Lip’s own good—this is Mickey’s whiskey. He doesn’t want Lip drinking it all before Mickey can even get some.

“Hey, Mickey?” Lip stops him just before he goes out the door.

“What?” Mickey snaps, annoyed now. This detour took way longer than anticipated and the fireworks are probably going to be going off the whole time he’s walking back. He’ll be all jumpy with his hands full of shit.

“Thanks,” Lip says. “And I’m glad you and Ian worked your shit out, even if you still got a little bit of shit left to deal with.” He huffs. “Welcome to the family.”

Mickey blinks. “Uh, like I wasn’t already in the family the first time I had to throw Frank out on his ass.”

Lip laughs. “True.”

When Mickey gets back to the party, Ian takes the blankets from him and spreads them out, then pulls Mickey down on one with him. “What took so long?” Ian asks, rubbing Mickey’s back.

Mickey hesitates. It’s probably the kind of thing Ian should know about, but Mickey doesn’t really want to be the one to tell him. Shouldn’t Lip have to deal with that himself? And if Mickey tells him, Ian’s going to want to go straight home to check on Lip, and the whole trip back to get blankets will have been a total waste.

So Mickey just shrugs. “Had to take a piss,” he says.

Ian laughs. “All that beer filled up your little baby bladder, huh?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey laughs. Ian puts his arm under Mickey’s head and nestles Mickey in close to his side, and they lie back and watch fireworks together. It reminds Mickey of when they were heading toward Mexico, when they slept out under the sky. The memory is kind of painful, because of what happened after, but kind of not at the same time. He was so fucking happy to be back with Ian, to be in the fresh air and out of prison with Ian right there next to him.

Maybe he doesn’t have to let the bad shit cloud the good memories. Maybe he can think about them sleeping under the stars, wrapped up in each other, and just remember how good he felt. Maybe he doesn’t have to be pissed about that being one of the last good times they had until they were in fucking prison together.

And this time is good. Mickey isn’t really a big fan of fireworks, actually. They sound like gunshots and look like the lights behind his eyes when he gets punched in the face. But the light casts funny shadows on Ian’s face, and Ian keeps _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing the same way some of the kids are. He has his arm around Mickey and he’s warm and solid. He keeps glancing over to look at Mickey, to grin at him when the big fireworks go off, and kissing with fireworks exploding around them is kind of nice.

“That was pretty cool, right?” Ian asks, kind of worriedly, while they walk home. Mickey’s got the blankets and Liam’s sweatshirt and Carl’s hat that he forgot when he left. Liam’s trailing behind a little, worn out from a day in the sun and running around, and Mickey keeps glancing back to make sure he’s keeping up. Ian’s carrying Franny, who fell asleep about ten minutes into the fireworks. Debbie stayed to hook up with whoever, and Ian assured her they’d get Franny home and into bed.

Mickey’s heart is suddenly so full he almost stops walking. He’s spent so long bracing for the fallout, for Ian to leave again, and he didn’t stop to think about the way they were building up this life together. Ian’s right—his family is Mickey’s family. Mickey even let Franny sit next to him on the blanket for a minute. He and Ian have a life together, a family, a home.

Mickey looks over at Ian, hoping the darkness hides the sudden tears in his eyes that he wouldn’t be able to explain if Ian noticed. All he knows is that this matters to him. This is important. One last little barrier inside him falls down, the last part of himself he was holding back just in case.

“Yeah,” he manages to tell Ian. He tucks Carl’s hat under his chin so he has a hand free to rest on Ian’s shoulder blades while they walk. “It was pretty cool.”

It only takes two days before Lip tells Ian. Or at least, it’s two days before Ian comes to Mickey, a stricken look on his face, and says, “Did you help Lip when he was drunk the other night?”

Mickey scratches the back of his head. “I don’t know if I helped him.”

“Mickey,” Ian says. “You came back for the blankets during the party and you found him in the kitchen? Lip says you guys had a talk and you helped him feel better and took the whiskey from him.”

“My fucking whiskey,” Mickey mutters.

Ian puts his hands on Mickey’s hips. “Mickey,” he says softly. “Do you know how much that means to me?”

Mickey shrugs. He doesn’t know why he feels so… _shy_. Ian’s just acting so fucking grateful and it’s a lot for Mickey to handle. “Not that big of a deal,” he mumbles.

Ian kisses him. “It is,” he says. He gives Mickey a little smile. “You can handle the Gallagher crazy, huh?”

Mickey rolls his eyes, heart filling up the way it did the other night while they were walking home. “Lip told you that part?”

“Yeah, he told me all about it.” Ian rests their foreheads together. “Thanks for caring about my family.”

“I don’t really care about your family,” Mickey protests. “Just didn’t want you to come home and see him fucking drinking himself to death.”

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. “You always make sure everything’s good for me.”

Mickey doesn’t really know how to respond to that. It’s not like he’s the master at making things good. Most people would say having Mickey around automatically makes things worse. He runs a hand up and down Ian’s back, the way Ian does at night to help Mickey fall asleep. “Just want you to be happy,” Mickey finally says.

The smile Ian gives him is practically blinding. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, you’re doing a really good job.”

It’s probably the only time anyone’s ever told Mickey he’s doing something right. And it just happens to be the only thing Mickey’s ever cared to get right.

“Hey,” Debbie says one morning while Mickey’s blowing on his coffee and knuckling sleep from his eyes. “Can you do me a favor later today?”

After a long silence, Mickey looks around and realizes he’s the only other person in the room with her. “Are you talking to me?” He asks.

Debbie rolls her eyes a little. “Yes, Mickey, I’m talking to you,” she says, all slow and clear like she’s explaining to Franny why she can’t have chicken nuggets for the fortieth time in three days.

Mickey flips her off. “Fuck off. You’re gonna ask me for a favor and then be a bitch about it?”

“Okay, sorry,” Debbie says, back to her normal voice. “I just have this errand this afternoon.”

Mickey waits for a second. “What is it?” He asks when she doesn’t go on. Christ, and he’s the dumb one. Sure.

“You won’t say yes if you don’t know what it is?” Debbie asks.

“I probably won’t say yes even when I do know what it is,” Mickey points out.

Debbie sighs. “Mickey,” she says pleadingly.

“Listen, no fucking way I’m agreeing to some open favor. You tell me specifically what you want me to do, and I’ll decide if I want to do it.”

“I have this storage unit,” she relents. “And I need some stuff out of it.”

“Why do I gotta do it?” Mickey asks.

“Well.” Debbie sighs again. “There’s this guy in the unit next to mine…” She trails off.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Giving you a hard time?”

“Kind of a creep,” Debbie admits.

Mickey takes a slurp of his coffee. “So do you actually need something from the storage place or do you just want me to go down there and beat his ass?”

“You’d do that?” Debbie asks.

Mickey makes a face. “You think I need an excuse to go beat someone’s ass?”

She snorts. “Good point. But I actually do need something from the unit. I’ll give you the key.” She clasps her hands under her chin like a kid on TV saying a prayer. “Please, Mickey?”

He pretty much already decided to do it when she said some guy was giving her a hard time. Maybe it’s because he’s gay and never cared about girls, maybe it’s because Mickey can’t stand people in his face who won’t go away when he wants them to so he commiserates, but Mickey cannot stand dudes who perv on chicks and won’t leave them alone. Try it once or twice, fine, but once she says she’s not into you, go the fuck away.

Going anywhere with Mandy always required brass knuckles at the bare minimum. He can’t even count how many times he’s had to drag some asshole off the bus to curb-stomp him because he wouldn’t leave Mandy alone. And he kind of half-remembers Ian talking about some fucking pedo jacking off at Debbie when she was like a baby. Probably fucked her up good.

Besides, he’ll definitely win some points with Ian if he helps out Debbie. Not that he really needs points with Ian. Ian still considers himself vastly in debt to Mickey in terms of displays of love and affection. But winning points with Ian is never a _bad_ thing. And even without any kind of keeping score, Mickey just likes doing shit that makes Ian happy.

“Fine,” Mickey says.

Debbie squeals so loudly and shrilly that Mickey spills his fucking coffee. “The fuck?” He complains.

“Sorry,” Debbie says quickly, like she’s afraid he’s going to change his mind. He’s considering it. He doesn’t exactly appreciate sudden loud noises, especially when she sounds like a goddamn siren. “I’ll get the key. And I’ll make you pancakes!”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mickey says, anger dissipating a bit. “I’m always down for pancakes.”

“Yeah, and I’ll make banana pancakes. Ian said they’re your favorite,” Debbie reports, rustling around in some drawer. Mickey hides his smile in his coffee cup while he thinks about Ian talking about Mickey’s favorite food.

When Mickey’s standing on the street outside the storage unit place, he realizes Debbie never actually told him what she needs in there. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters. He has her number, because Ian put all his siblings’ numbers in Mickey’s phone. He said it was in case of an emergency. Mickey can’t imagine any emergency where Debbie would be of any use to him, but it’s useful now.

“Hi,” she answers excitedly.

“What is it?” He asks without preamble.

“What?”

“In the place,” Mickey says impatiently. “What am I getting?”

“Uh…” Debbie sounds confused. “Are you inside?”

“No, I’m outside.” Mickey’s starting to move from mildly irritated, which is basically his baseline, into actually pissed off. “You didn’t even tell me what you fucking need in there.”

“Oh.” Debbie sounds weird. “Um, sorry. It’s…um, it’s a dress.”

“You sent me out here for a fucking dress?” Mickey snaps. “Fuck this, I’m leaving.”

“No!” Debbie cries. “Mickey…trust me. Go in the unit.”

“Why would I fucking—”

“ _Mickey_ ,” Debbie cuts him off. “I promise you that you want to go into that storage unit.”

Mickey can’t believe he didn’t sniff out this setup earlier. She’s not actually a good actress, so he must be losing his touch. He can’t believe little Debbie Gallagher, of all people, got one over on him.

“I swear to God,” Mickey starts.

“It’s nothing bad,” Debbie promises. “And if you don’t like it, you can punch me.”

“I don’t fucking punch girls,” Mickey shoots back scornfully. “I mean, not unless they’re trying to kill me or something.”

“Um, that’s really noble,” Debbie says dubiously. “But you’re going to like what’s in there. Or, you know… _who_.”

“Who—” Mickey stops. He’s a fucking idiot. Obviously it’s Ian. “Okay.” He hangs up. He’s got butterflies in his stomach as he approaches the door, which is so stupid. It’s not like he’s nervous to see Ian. It’s _Ian_. But the thought of Ian planning some elaborate surprise that required Debbie’s subterfuge is kind of exciting.

Mickey licks his lips outside the unit. He smooths down his hair and tugs at the bottom of his shirt. He’s not really dressed up or anything. But Ian won’t care. Mickey looks how he always looks, and Ian seems to like that pretty well. Mickey makes a lot of noise as he puts the key in, just to give Ian some warning. Then he takes a deep breath and pulls the door up.

There’s a table and two chairs in the middle of the storage unit, all fancy like a restaurant. There’s even a tablecloth and candles. Ian’s standing beside the table, looking kind of nervous. Mickey laughs a little, just because this is kind of goofy, but it’s making his chest hurt a little. In a good way.

Ian grins at Mickey’s laugh. “Hey, Mick,” he says. “Debbie didn’t know if she could get you here, but I knew as soon as she said some guy was bugging her you’d come. Knight in shining armor.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Just always down to crack some skulls.” He pulls the door down and heads straight over to Ian. He gives him a long kiss hello and then looks around. “What the fuck is this?”

“Just a little romance,” Ian says.

“I look like a romance guy to you?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “You do.”

Mickey doesn’t know why that stops him in his tracks. He doesn’t hate it. “Okay,” is all he can think to say. Ian gives him another kiss and then takes his arm and leads him over to the table. He makes a big show of pulling the chair out for Mickey.

“Your seat, sir,” Ian says.

Mickey’s laughing at him. It’s all so corny, but it’s so Ian. His stomach kind of hurts just from thinking about Ian doing all this, planning it and setting it up and roping Debbie in for help. He sits in the chair and they struggle for a second to figure out how Ian’s supposed to help him scoot the chair in. “Okay, whatever,” Mickey finally says. “Just go sit down.”

“Hang on,” Ian says. “I gotta get the food.” He comes back with paper plates full of pizza rolls. “It’s not fancy,” he says, kind of embarrassed about it. Mickey loves him so much it hurts.

“Pizza rolls,” Mickey says with a grin. “We gonna fight over Van Damme and Segal, too?”

Ian looks relieved. “Okay, I was pretty sure you’d get it, but…” He shrugs and swallows hard. “That was our first date.”

“Thought you said we’d never gone on a date,” Mickey reminds him.

“I was young and crazy,” Ian says dismissively. Mickey snorts and pops a pizza roll in his mouth. “I wasn’t sure…” Ian blows out a breath. “I mean, I didn’t know if the reminder was okay.”

Mickey knows what he means right away. Sure, that night was one of the best nights of Mickey’s life. The house all to themselves, making out on the couch, sleeping in a bed together and fucking as much as they wanted—it was probably the first good night he’d ever had.

But the next morning was when Terry caught them.

Mickey takes his time choosing his words, thinking about how he felt at the block party, watching the fireworks and thinking about Mexico. “Not like we’d ever forget,” he points out. “And before that part, it was all pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Ian checks. He’s being all sly because he knows it was better than pretty good.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’d think you’d want me to get cocky,” Ian says. He grins when Mickey laughs, but he gets serious again. He’s being very serious about all of this. It’s kind of weird. “I think that was the night I realized you loved me,” Ian says softly. “I already knew I loved you. And I thought you loved me before then, but that was the night I knew for sure.”

“I didn’t know it,” Mickey says apologetically. “Maybe I did, deep down. But I didn’t know I knew it.” That doesn’t really make sense, but Ian will get what he means.

“I know,” Ian says, proving him right. “But that’s okay.” He squares his shoulders and puts his determined face on. Mickey wonders what the hell he’s getting all geared up for when Ian drops out of his chair onto one knee and pulls out a fucking ring box.

“What the fuck,” Mickey says, completely shocked.

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says. His voice breaks when he goes on. “Will you marry me?”

Mickey stares at him. It’s only been three months since Ian said he wasn’t ready to get married yet. “What are you doing?” Mickey asks. He can hear how shaky his own voice sounds.

Ian gapes for a second. “I’m…proposing.”

“Why?” Mickey asks.

“Because I want to marry you.”

“Will you get off the floor?” Mickey requests.

“But…”

“Ian, get up,” Mickey says.

Ian does, slowly. “I don’t get it,” he admits, dropping back into his chair. He’s still holding the ring box open so Mickey can see the two matching rings in there.

Mickey runs his fingers through his hair. “Man, three months ago we had a huge fucking blowup about all this. What…? Now you just changed your mind?”

Ian gets out of his chair again, but he doesn’t get back on one knee. He comes over and sits in Mickey’s lap. Mickey grunts a little, because Ian’s ass is mostly just bone. Ian presses his weight into Mickey’s body and Mickey feels himself settle from the contact.

“You know how you said you knew but you didn’t know you knew?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, I just said it two seconds ago.” Mickey gets grumpy when he doesn’t know exactly what’s happening. Luckily, there is no fucking way Ian doesn’t know that by now. If all their years together didn’t teach him that, prison sure did.

“That’s how I feel,” Ian tells him. “I knew I wanted to marry you but I didn’t know I knew. Why did that jump to my mind so fast as a solution when I thought you killed Terry? I could’ve said we could run or just make up an alibi. I don’t give a shit about lying under oath for you. But deep down, I _did_ want to marry you.”

“Thought you said you weren’t sure about marriage in general,” Mickey says. He’s all choked up. He can’t believe this might be happening. He’s refusing to get his hopes up. Not this time.

“I’m not,” Ian says. “But this isn’t marriage in general. This is marriage to _you_.” Ian gives him a soft little smile. “How could I not be sure about that?”

“I don’t…” Mickey can’t take a full breath. “Ian, I…”

Ian smooths down Mickey’s hair. “Mickey,” he murmurs. “I was worried that I couldn’t make promises when I’m not sure who I’ll be. But one thing that’s never changed is that I love you. And I know you love me and you’re always going to love me. So no more leaving. No more running when shit gets hard. I know it’s easy for me to say and I haven’t given you any reason to believe me. But I’m going to prove it to you. I swear. I’m gonna prove it every day for the rest of our lives. I don’t want to be away from you ever again. You’re my family. I love you. You take care of me even when I complain and get mad at you for it. You’re funny and smart and strong and grumpy and hot as fuck.” Ian laughs wetly, tears in his eyes. He’s all blurry because Mickey’s got tears in his eyes, too. Ian kisses him. “We pretty much already _are_ married,” Ian points out. “And I want to make it official.”

Mickey swipes at his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s a little ball of fear in his chest. Fear that they’ll get back to that courthouse to get that marriage license and it’ll happen again. Mickey will sign and Ian won’t. Fear that Ian will change his mind. Fear that Ian’s just doing this because he thinks it’s what Mickey wants.

But Mickey knows Ian better than he’s ever known anyone else on Earth. He knows when Ian’s lying. He knows when Ian’s hiding something. Even if he doesn’t _want_ to know and lets himself hide in denial, he always knows deep down.

Ian is being completely honest right now. And yeah, it’s possible he _thinks_ this is what he wants. It’s possible it _will_ happen again. It’s possible Ian could leave him ten years from now, could go off his meds and fuck his way through Chicago again. All of that’s possible. Hell, it might even be most likely.

But it’s also possible it won’t happen. And they’ve got a pretty fucking good track record of beating the odds. Besides, Ian didn’t actually want to leave him at the courthouse. He wanted to talk, and Mickey’s brain immediately told him Ian was leaving him. Ian showed up when Mickey was testifying, just to see him and let Mickey know he loves him. He showed up to pick Mickey up when he got released. He showed up at that bar to try to win Mickey back. He wants Mickey with him. He wants this. He just wants _Mickey_ , plain and simple. And Mickey wants him. Mickey loves Ian more than he could ever find words to express. He loves Ian more than he loves himself, that’s for damn sure.

Mickey’s not good at trust. He’s not good at letting go of grudges. But this is Ian. Mickey does trust him, even if he sometimes thinks he shouldn’t.

Mickey cups Ian’s face in his hands and looks into his eyes. Ian’s face is his favorite thing to look at. He’s going to watch this face get old. He’s going to start noticing wrinkles and gray hairs. He’ll tease Ian about them, but he’ll like them. It means they made it.

Mickey’s throat is so tight he has to clear it before he can speak. “Let’s get married.”

“Oh, God, Mickey,” Ian breathes, grabbing Mickey’s shirt and pulling him in. Mickey kisses Ian softly, deeply, sweetly. Not like they’re not still going to be horny for each other all the time. But they don’t have to rush things. They’ve got all the time in the world.

Mickey would not say he goes bridezilla. In fact, he would kill anyone who said that for him. But it’s possible Mickey does get a bit…particular about the wedding. He never would’ve expected himself to care; like Ian said, they’ve pretty much been married for a while now, so making it official really only matters legally, and it’s not like Mickey’s ever cared about the law.

But it doesn’t only matter legally. It matters to Mickey. A hell of a lot.

This is the last wedding he’s ever going to have. The only one that counts. His wedding to _Ian_. This isn’t something Mickey ever even let himself hope for until a few years ago. It wasn’t something he seriously thought would happen until a few months ago. He and Ian are going to stand up in a room full of people and say that they love each other and they’re going to stay together forever.

So yeah. It matters.

“I think it looks good,” Lip decides, looking around the room. It’s not like they could afford to hire a wedding planner or anything like that, so they set the whole place up themselves. Mickey didn’t mean to go overboard on insisting on the chairs and the decorations he wanted, but he’s pretty sure he probably did. He knows everyone was surprised at how vehement he got. He doesn’t give a shit.

“Lucky we found that other flower place,” Mickey says. “We owe that old hag a firebomb.”

“Mickey,” Ian says wearily.

“Can I help?” Liam asks.

“Sure,” Mickey says.

“Me too?” Carl says. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I want to throw a Molotov cocktail through a window.”

“Make sure you break the glass first,” Ian advises. Then he shakes his head. “Wait, no, don’t throw Molotov cocktails at all.”

“Sometimes that’s the only way to fix a problem,” Mickey says. Someone else from behind him says the exact same thing. He turns around and gulps. It’s Mandy. It’s not like he didn’t know she was coming; Ian made him call her himself, even though he yanked the phone out of Mickey’s hands two seconds after he asked her and then the two of them yakked away for like a year. It’s just kind of jarring to see his sister after not seeing her for so long. It’s been five years since he last saw her.

She doesn’t look all that different; she’s still blonde, like the last time he saw her, which is kind of weird. He’s more used to seeing her with dark hair, like him. Maybe she keeps it blonde to try to distance herself from their family. Mickey doesn’t blame her. She got rid of her nose ring at some point. She’s wearing shorts that aren’t halfway up her ass. She looks…grown up.

“Mandy!” Ian cries. He runs over and grabs her in a hug.

“Of course you show up when the work’s done,” Mickey says. Mandy walks over and gives him a hug and then a titty twister. Typical. She brought Sandy, one of their cousins. Mickey didn’t even know where either of them were until last week, let alone that they were living together. He didn’t know Mandy was bringing Sandy here.

“Hi,” Ian says, looking curiously at Sandy.

“This is our cousin, Sandy,” Mickey says.

“Sandy?” Carl echoes dubiously. “Your names are Mandy and Sandy?”

“It was my name first,” Mandy points out. “Copycat cousin.”

“We could actually be sisters, for all we know,” Sandy admits. “Supposedly my dad was one of Terry’s brothers, but I never met him. Could’ve actually just been Terry who fucked my mom.”

“Most likely,” Mickey agrees. He thinks he’s showing a lot of restraint by not pointing out he didn’t factor her into the wedding plans. That’s why people are supposed to RSVP. “But since when would he not just admit he was fucking around?”

“So, wait, you’ve got a whole set of family members who _aren’t_ homophobic dicks?” Lip asks. “That must be nice to find out.”

Mickey shrugs. “I mean, it’s two people.”

“People are gay,” Sandy says. “He’s gay, I’m gay, whatever.”

“You are?” Ian asks, all excited. “Wow, two gay Milkoviches. And…” He inclines his head a little at Mandy, shrugging.

“A half,” Mandy allows. “Sometimes.”

“Whoa,” Carl says. “That—”

“Don’t say what you’re thinking,” Sandy advises, pulling a butterfly knife out of somewhere. “Just do not.”

Carl raises his eyebrows and laughs. “You’re even more like the girl version of Mickey than Mandy!”

That earns him a scowl from all three Milkoviches, and then all the Gallagher boys are laughing at them. “We’re done here,” Mickey says. “Let’s go.”

Ian slings an arm around Mickey’s neck and drops a kiss into Mickey’s hairline. “When we come back here, we’ll be getting married,” he murmurs in Mickey’s ear. Mickey doesn’t bother fighting the smile that takes over his face. He wraps his arm around Ian’s waist and squeezes Ian into his side. It’s a little hard to walk that way, but Mickey doesn’t care.

“Look at you,” Sandy says with a snort. “Domestic little bitches.”

Ian and Mickey both flip her off, but they’re both still smiling. “Anyone heard from Debbie or Fiona?” Ian asks. “I thought Fiona’s flight got in an hour ago, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“Probably stopped somewhere to make sure they wouldn’t be back in time to help,” Mickey says.

“Probably got in a fight and killed each other on the side of the road somewhere,” Lip counters.

“Probably stopped to get milkshakes like they always used to,” Ian says.

“I want a milkshake,” Liam says, disappointed.

“I hope Fi brought us presents,” Carl says. “She owes us.”

“That’s not really how presents are supposed to work,” Lip says. It’s one of his first days without the baby in a while; Debbie took the kid with her to pick up Fiona. Lip keeps checking his phone, like maybe he actually is worried they killed each other and the two kids are trapped in the car somewhere.

When they get home, Debbie and Fiona are there with the babies and V and Lip’s girl. She showed up again last night crying and asking him to forgive her. Lip had asked Mickey, very seriously, “Do you think I should do it?” Mickey had shrugged and just looked at Ian. He told Lip it had worked out pretty well for him. So Lip’s giving her another chance. _Just one more_ , he’d decided, and Mickey had tried not to roll his eyes because he knows all too well how many _just once more_ times there can be. Most importantly, at least to Mickey, are the pizzas also at the table.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to do a bachelor party?” Carl asks. “We didn’t get any strippers.”

“Isn’t Ian the stripper?” Lip asks.

Ian flips him off without even looking up from his pizza. Mickey scoffs. “The fuck would I want a bachelor party for?” He asks. “Happier about getting married than staying single.”

“Aw,” Ian says with a grin. “And besides,” he says to everyone else. “I’d want Mickey at any party I’m having.”

“You could’ve had one together,” Fiona says.

“This count?” Mickey asks. “Bring me some booze and we’ll call it good. I’ll blow Ian later to make it official.”

“You guys are fucking adorable,” Tami says. Mickey doesn’t know her well enough to tell if she’s making fun of them or not, so he narrows his eyes a little. But she could be serious, so he doesn’t scowl too hard, just in case. They _are_ fucking adorable.

“Well, Kev and V are bringing all the booze tomorrow,” Debbie says. “I don’t think we’re getting anything free at the Alibi for a long time.”

“You shouldn’t be getting the booze free tomorrow,” V mutters. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Ian.”

Mickey looks at Mandy. She nods. She’ll hook them up with something tonight. She keeps glancing over at Lip holding the baby. It must be weird for her to see. She was pretty hung up on Lip for a long time. Mickey doesn’t think Lip’s good enough for Mandy, but it’s probably harder for Mandy to see it that way.

They spend most of the time they’re eating dinner listening to Fiona talk about all the shit she’s up to wherever she lives now. Mickey mostly tunes it out. He doesn’t have an issue with Fiona; he just doesn’t care. He wants to skip through the whole rest of the night so it can be tomorrow and he can marry Ian.

Mandy gives him a significant look that means she wants to leave. He passes the same look over to Ian. Ian nods. “Hey,” he says, raising his voice a little over the dull roar of his family chattering away. “We’re going to go.”

“Go where?” Fiona asks.

Ian shrugs. “Have some kind of bachelor party, I guess.”

“Probably gonna go give Mickey a lap dance,” Carl says with his mouth full.

“I wouldn’t have to go anywhere else to do that,” Ian points out.

“Well, don’t stay out too late,” Fiona says, amused. “Wouldn’t want to be late to your own wedding.”

Ian looks over at Mickey with a little grin. “Nah,” he says. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Gross,” Lip says, but he’s smiling. All of Ian’s siblings look happy for them. Hell, they all helped make sure all their plans came through for tomorrow. Mickey doesn’t normally feel a ton of kinship or even affection for Ian’s siblings, but he does right now.

Not that he’s going to say anything about it, obviously. He just follows Ian and Mandy and Sandy out of the house to the chorus of goodbyes behind them. He wraps an arm around Ian’s waist while they walk. Mickey’s not really a hand holding kind of guy, but he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself tonight. Ian doesn’t seem to mind.

“Where we going?” Ian asks amicably, resting his head against Mickey’s for a second.

“I got some weed,” Mandy says. “But not enough to share with everyone there. I don’t know where we’re going, though. Park?”

“I know a place,” Ian says. His voice is all soft and fond. Mickey looks at him questioningly and Ian grins. “You’ll see.”

Mickey figures out where they’re going in about two minutes. He snorts. “Dugouts?”

“What better place for our bachelor party?” Ian asks, pulling Mickey tightly into his side.

“What, like the Little League baseball field?” Mandy asks, confused. “Why here?”

Ian and Mickey look at each other. Sandy makes a face. “You guys fuck here?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, unabashed.

“ _And_ we played baseball here together,” Ian adds. “As kids.”

Now Mickey makes a face. “That makes it a little weird, man.”

Ian laughs. “No, it doesn’t. I think it’s sweet.”

“You gonna make me sit on a bench you fucked on?” Mandy asks.

“We never fucked on a bench,” Mickey says. “Just the grass. And against the fence.”

“And in the dirt,” Ian says.

“And the equipment shed.”

“And the bathroom.”

“Jesus,” Sandy mutters. “Horny fuckers.”

“Hey, we didn’t have anywhere else to be together,” Ian defends them. “Well, besides the freezer at work. And the back room at work.”

Mandy starts laughing. “Fuck, how did _more_ people not walk in on you guys?”

“Guess we didn’t put a ton of thought into that,” Ian admits, smiling a little.

Mickey knocks his hip into Ian’s. “Couldn’t stay away,” he says. He says it kind of quietly, because it’s so fucking cheesy, but it’s also true. And Ian’s face lights up, so it’s worth feeling kind of stupid and Mandy and Sandy both laughing at him. Ian said words matter to him, so Mickey’s trying to use words more. If Ian can make an effort with actions for Mickey, the least Mickey could do is open his mouth once in a while.

“And now we get to get married,” Ian says while they climb over the fence. “ _Married_ , Mick!”

“Yeah, long as you don’t leave me at the altar,” Mickey jokes. He wants to knock on wood after he says it, because it’s not like it hasn’t crossed his mind a few times. But he doesn’t want Ian to know he’s not entirely joking. He doesn’t want Ian to feel bad about it. He’s mostly over that fear. Probably like ninety percent. It won’t be one hundred percent until whoever in charge says they’re married.

“I’m all in now,” Ian promises, right on cue. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

“Maybe we should go and let you guys fuck,” Mandy says. From anyone else, it would sound dismissive, like they’re annoyed at being left out of so much of the conversation. But Mandy kind of means it, and she means it more as an offering to give them alone time than actually about fucking.

“Nah,” Ian says easily, knowing without even checking that Mickey’s on his side. He slings an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and one around Mandy’s, just like he tried that day Mickey got out of juvie. Mickey doesn’t shake him off this time. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to fuck,” Ian says.

Mickey looks over at Ian, unable to hold back his smile. “The rest of our lives,” he echoes softly. Ian leans in and kisses him, and Mickey’s never been surer of anything in his entire life.

“Nervous?” Ian asks, tying Mickey’s tie for him.

Mickey rolls his eyes a little. “Nervous?” He echoes. “Come on.”

Ian laughs softly. Mickey can’t take his eyes off Ian. He’s practically glowing. Any doubts Mickey had about Ian being all in this time, being ready, are gone while he looks at Ian right now. “I’m glad you got Mandy and Sandy here,” Ian says. “Repping your family, too.”

“As much family as I could ever have,” Mickey says with a shrug.

“You know, you could’ve invited Svetlana and Yevgeny,” Ian suggests gently. Ian hinted at it, kind of, while they were planning stuff, but Mickey shut that shit down hard.

“Don’t want ‘em here,” Mickey says. “Don’t need ‘em and they don’t need me.”

“You never want to know your son?” Ian asks.

Mickey blows out a breath. “Ian.”

“Okay,” Ian relents. “I’m just saying. You can’t pretend you didn’t start to care about him.”

Mickey rubs at his lower lip. “Yeah, maybe. But then I got locked up and Svetlana found some rich old dude, so whatever. Kid’s better off without me.”

Ian looks sad, which sucks. They’re just supposed to be happy today. Ian leans in and nudges his nose along Mickey’s. “I think you’d be a good dad,” he says.

Mickey laughs out loud. “Why the fuck would you think that?”

“Because you got the biggest fucking heart, Mickey,” Ian says firmly. “And you’re starting to open up so much more. I’m not the only one who knows it anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Mickey asks dismissively. “Everyone thinks I’m trash.”

“No, they don’t,” Ian protests. “Mickey, my siblings _love_ you.”

“What?” Mickey scoffs.

“Debbie _cried_ when I asked if she’d help me get you to the storage unit. Liam kept asking when you were coming back the whole week you were gone and then he helped me get the rings. Carl even told me to get my head out of my ass and go get you back. And Lip gave me a big pep talk about not letting good things go when you can hold onto them. He’s the one who told me I _should_ marry you. Eventually.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. He never even considered that Ian’s siblings would want him around. He figured they were just ambivalent toward him. “Well, still leaves Fiona,” he says, just because he can’t think of anything else.

Ian rolls his eyes. “When I called to tell her about the wedding, she said _about time_ ,” he says. He gives the back of Mickey’s neck a light squeeze. “Face it, Mick,” he says happily. “Everybody loves you.”

“Wow, okay, so not true,” Mickey says. That poor substitute for Ian, Bradley or whatever his name was, would definitely not agree.

Ian laughs. “Fine, maybe not _everybody_. But everybody who matters. Everybody who actually knows you.”

Mickey has no idea why he’s so choked up about this. Why the fuck does he care that Ian’s siblings don’t hate him? He didn’t realize it would matter to him, but apparently it does.

“You want kids, huh?” He asks. It would probably seem like a change of subject to anyone else, but Ian follows his thought process.

“I don’t have to,” Ian says. “But yeah, I wouldn’t mind a kid or two.” He gives Mickey a little smile. “Raise ‘em together.”

Mickey’s still not a big fan of the idea. Kids are dirty and gross and so fucking loud. They can’t do anything for themselves and they whine all the time. But he can’t really help but picture Ian with a little kid, some ugly little redhead with freckles all over just like Ian had when he was a kid. It would make Ian happier than pretty much anything else, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, well,” Mickey says, feeling like right now he’d find a way to get Ian the moon if he asked. “Plenty of strays wandering around the neighborhood. Sure we could pick one up for cheap.”

Not like they’d ever get approved for a real adoption. Two gay ex-cons in a house full of crazy? Mickey knows the child protection people tend to look the other way on a lot—the Milkovich kids always getting put back with Terry is proof enough of that—but they probably wouldn’t turn a blind eye on that.

Ian finishes tying Mickey’s tie and just looks at him for a second. He’s got so much love on his face Mickey almost can’t stand it. No one’s ever loved him like Ian does. No one’s ever loved him _period_. Maybe Mandy, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it or anything. It’s fucking overwhelming to think about. Why is Mickey worth all that? He doesn’t know. Most of the time, he doesn’t know that he _is_ worth it. But with the way Ian’s looking at him right now, he kind of feels like he might be.

Then, of course, Ian has to ruin the whole mood by saying, “Wow. You’re an ugly motherfucker.”

Mickey cracks up laughing, If there’s anyone on Earth he knows _doesn’t_ think he’s ugly, it’s Ian. Dude’s gagging for Mickey pretty much 24/7. He’s probably written poems about Mickey’s ass. “Least I don’t have to hide in a coffin ‘til the sun goes down,” Mickey shoots back, which is hypocritical as fuck because he’s not any darker than Ian.

Ian laughs and rolls his eyes a little, and then they just look at each other for a second. They’re about to get married. _Married_. All the shit Mickey wanted—sickness, health, rest of their lives, all that. That’s what they’re doing.

He doesn’t know who moves first, but they end up moving in like they’re magnets. They always have been. They stand there in their suits, kissing, until Fiona coughs from the doorway. They turn to look at her without letting go of each other. She’s leaning on the doorframe and smiling.

“What, you practicing for the big kiss at the wedding?”

Ian laughs. “Sure. We’ll take all the practice we can get.”

“Everybody’s ready to go,” Fiona reports. She raises her eyebrows. “Just waiting on the grooms.”

Ian looks over at Mickey. “You ready to do this?”

Mickey feels a laugh bubbling out of his throat. He can’t stop it. He feels like he’s high, and it’s just on Ian, on the fact that they’re about to get married. “Damn straight, Gallagher,” he says. Ian takes his hand, and they walk out the door together.

Stepping into the reception hall and knowing he’s going to be leaving here married to Ian takes Mickey’s breath away for a second. Everything is just how they set it up last night. Kev is making sure people sit down instead of chit-chatting and holding everything up, and he’s also making sure none of Terry’s people try to gate crash. Just because Terry’s dead doesn’t mean there’s no one left to have beef with Mickey.

Terry for sure would’ve tried to ruin this. He probably would’ve burned this place down just so Mickey couldn’t get married here, would’ve tried to bust in with a gun and a crew and probably would’ve shot Mickey before they could get their rings. But Terry’s dead, and Mickey’s free. He never has to worry about his father again. Turns out one of Terry’s brothers took care of that. He was tweaking hard and pissed over some argument they’d had earlier that day. He’s doing life for inadvertently saving Mickey’s.

Mickey takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, pushing Terry from his mind. Mickey doesn’t want Terry’s ghost hanging around here. This day is not going to be ruined.

“You okay?” Ian asks softly.

Mickey looks over at him, throat tight. Every last whisper of Terry flies out of Mickey’s head as he looks at Ian. Mickey just nods, not sure he can talk right now. He’s got butterflies in his stomach and his heart is all the way up in his mouth somewhere. But none of it’s bad. He’s… _excited_. It’s not an emotion he feels very often, so it took him a second to place it.

Ian pulls Mickey in and kisses him. He steps back and winks. “See you soon,” he says. He heads off toward the back of the room with a last smile over his shoulder. He hasn’t stopped smiling since they woke up this morning. Mickey watches him walk away with his own smile.

“Gross,” Mandy says, startling Mickey and making him jump. She’s smiling too, though. Everyone keeps smiling. Mickey’s never smiled this much in his life and he’s never been around so many smiling people. It would almost freak him out if he weren’t so excited. Ian probably saw Mandy coming and walked off to give them a private moment or something dumb like that.

“Yeah, we’re annoying,” Mickey says proudly.

Mandy laughs a little. “I’m glad,” she says quietly. “Glad you guys got your shit together.”

Mickey swallows hard. “Thanks,” he makes himself say. “You got your shit together?”

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

They look at each other for a second. “Much as any Milkovich can?” Mickey guesses.

That makes her laugh. “Yeah.”

“Mickey,” V calls over, kind of gesturing at the lady in priest clothes or whatever they are standing at the front of the room. “You ready or what? Just waiting on you.”

Mandy grins at him. “You ready or what?” She echoes.

“I’m ready,” Mickey says. He laughs. “Fuck, I’m so fucking ready.”

“Good.” Mandy gives his arm a little squeeze and then relinquishes him to Ian, who just popped up like he was waiting around a corner or something, with a flourish. “All yours.”

“Yeah, he is,” Ian says, smiling widely.

Mandy snorts. “Okay, now you guys are just being stupid.”

Ian takes Mickey’s hand and the music starts up. They walk down the aisle together. They decided to skip out on the whole one person down the aisle while the other waits at the front. It felt more right to do this together. And Mickey’s extra glad of it now—his throat is starting to get all tight. He needs Ian right beside him, holding his hand, when he gets like this.

They get to the front of the room and stand in front of the priest lady or whoever she is. Mickey didn’t know chicks could be priests. But it’s not like he knows a hell of a lot about church. As far as he knew, no priest would let two dudes get married, either, so all of this is new to him.

She goes into some spiel about marriage and love. Mickey can barely listen. All he can do is stand there and look at Ian, look at his suit and his smile and all the love in his eyes. Oh, God, Mickey’s not going to make it through this with his reputation intact. He’s going to fucking cry. The scariest part is how little he cares.

All of the sudden, it’s time to say the vows. Mickey bites his lip hard enough to taste blood just to keep himself from crying. Standing there in front of everyone, looking into Ian’s eyes and promising to love him and cherish him—yeah. Okay. Mickey loses his battle and he can hear his own voice crack. Everyone can tell he’s crying and he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

It’s nothing compared to hearing Ian make those promises to him, though. Richer, poorer, sickness, health—that’s all Mickey’s ever wanted from Ian. Being together. Working out their shit together. Mickey knows he’s got tears in his eyes and he doesn’t care.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband.”

They stand there frozen for a second, looking at each other, and then Ian looks at the lady and says, “Now?” His voice is the best kind of breathless, and when she gives them the go-ahead, they surge together, so much better than the way they did the last time Mickey got married. The room erupts in cheers and Mickey can hear Kev’s obnoxious whistling over everything else. The kiss is long and deep and perfect. Everything is perfect. It’s the best day of Mickey’s life.

The reception gets a little hazy, honestly. Mickey’s drinking beer and dancing with his sister and he can’t stop looking down at his hand, at the ring on his finger. It doesn’t really match with his knuckle tats, but you can still see the _U_ in _U-UP._ Not like Mickey gives a shit about matching, anyway, and he’d pick the ring over the tat any day.

“Hey,” Debbie says, making him jump a little. She looks pretty. He should probably tell her that, but he probably won’t. “So. Your cousin. Sandy?”

She doesn’t say anything else. “What?” Mickey asks.

“What’s her deal?” Debbie asks.

“Like has she been to the joint?” Mickey asks. That’s usually what people mean when they ask about his family.

Debbie snorts. “No. Like is she into girls?”

“Oh.” Mickey blinks. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Isn’t what weird?”

“You can’t go macking on my fucking cousin,” Mickey says. “Isn’t that like…incest or something?”

“No!” Debbie protests. “I’m not related to her. Just because you’re my family by marriage doesn’t mean your biological family is my family.”

Mickey’s a little caught off-guard by how hard the word _family_ just smacked him in the face. She said it so easily. _You’re my family_.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey says, hoping she doesn’t notice him freaking out. “She’s into chicks.”

Debbie’s eyes light up. “What do you think?” She asks, hushed. “Should I ask her to dance?”

“Fucking Gallaghers,” Mickey says, but he can hear how fond he sounds. “Us Milkoviches are like fucking catnip to you guys.”

Debbie laughs. “Mickey! Come on. Yes or no? Think she’d say yes?”

Mickey licks his lips and looks over at Sandy. She and Mandy are drinking beers and doing a dorky little square-dance type thing with Ian and Carl. Mickey gets a little distracted looking at Ian for a second, but that’s not new. He turns back to Debbie.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess you Gallaghers are kinda like catnip to us, too, huh?”

Debbie grins and looks down at herself, straightening her dress. “I don’t know about this dress,” she frets. “I didn’t have any left in my storage unit, and I wouldn’t have wanted to wear anything that was in there when you guys fucked. I was going to steal one of Fiona’s but since she’s here, I felt bad.”

“Looks good,” Mickey makes himself say. Debbie looks at him, all surprised and grinning, and he can’t help but add, “I don’t really know what looks good on a chick, though, so take it with a grain of salt.”

She laughs and gives him a hug and then hustles off before he can even react. He doesn’t know how he was going to react, anyway. He watches her walk over to everyone and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. Ian grabs her hands and sways her a little bit, making them both laugh. Then Debbie talks to Sandy. Sandy looks her up and down and then smiles, all slow and salacious. Oh, Jesus, his cousin’s going to fuck Ian’s sister.

Ian turns around and meets Mickey’s eyes, drops his mouth open in exaggerated shock. He’s had two and a half beers and is halfway to sloshed. Lightweight. Mickey’s stomach hurts with how much he loves that idiot.

“Can I dance with you before you go with Ian?” Fiona asks, at his shoulder from out of nowhere.

“Why?” Mickey asks, surprised.

“Because you’re my brother-in-law now,” she points out. “Think I’m supposed to give you the whole talk about not hurting him.” She doesn’t really give him much choice, just grabs his hands and starts steering him around. Mickey doesn’t think he’s leading. But he doesn’t know how to dance, so whatever. “I know you’re not gonna hurt him,” Fiona adds softly.

“I won’t,” Mickey says.

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear,” Fiona says. She sighs. “They’re all doing alright, huh? Without me?”

Mickey doesn’t know if she wants him to say yes or no. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Only one I really know about is Ian. And he’s doing pretty good.”

She sighs again. “I do miss ‘em, you know. And I worry about them.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, unsure why she’s telling him this.

She smiles. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Okay,” he repeats. Nothing could bring down his mood. Certainly not anything she has to say.

“Well, anyway,” she says. “You know I’m a felon, right? So if something _does_ happen, I got connections.”

“Bitch, you trying to scare _me_?” Mickey asks dubiously. As fucking if she could have more connections than he does.

She squeezes his fingers hard enough to hurt. “I know you think you’re all tough and scary, But believe me when I say you got _no_ idea how scary I can get when someone goes after one of my kids.”

“Uh, okay,” Mickey says, extricating his fingers. He decides not to be pissed at her. For one thing, she obviously feels pretty shitty about leaving all her siblings behind and now she’s trying to intimidate him to make up for it. For another, he thinks she might be joking. He doesn’t really know her, but she’s doing this thing with her eyebrows than Ian does when he’s trying really hard to keep a straight face.

“Fi, are you threatening to kill him?” V calls out. “Don’t worry, Mickey; I normally wouldn’t bet against Fiona, but in terms of murder, I think you might have more experience.”

“Mickey’s never even murdered anyone,” Ian says defensively. “Shut up about my husband.”

Mickey’s not entirely sure what his face does when Ian says that, but it must be pretty stupid. Fiona laughs a little. “Aw,” she says. “You just went all dopey over Ian calling you husband.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says reflexively. “So?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Fiona assures him. “It’s cute.”

He gives her a look. “I am not cute.”

“Yes, you are,” Ian counters, coming up behind him. He puts his hands on Mickey’s hips from behind. “Can I have my husband back now, please?”

Fiona snorts. “Look at his face every time you say that.”

“Shut up,” Mickey says again, but there’s no heat in it.

Ian turns him around so he can fold Mickey into his arms. Mickey presses himself into Ian and rests there. “Husband,” Mickey says.

“Husband.” Ian has a smile in his voice. “We’re married, Mick.”

Mickey laughs and pulls back just enough to see Ian’s face. “You’re kinda drunk,” he says.

Ian leans down to rest against Mickey. “Drunk in love,” he sings in Mickey’s ear.

Mickey laughs and tightens his arms around Ian. “Okay, Frank Sinatra.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “It’s Beyoncé,” he corrects.

“Whatever,” Mickey huffs.

Ian cradles Mickey’s head in his hands. “I love you,” he says.

Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop smiling. “I love you.”

Ian kisses him, and then they sway together for the rest of the night.

“You two leaving?” Kev asks. Ian and Mickey have been making their way toward the door for the past fifteen minutes.

“Trying,” Ian says. He hasn’t had any more to drink, so he’s pretty much sober by now. Mickey cannot say the same. No one else at the reception can, either.

“Trying to leave to fuck?” Carl asks, tripping over his own feet. Ian frowns a little and Kev waves him off in one of those _I got this_ looks the Gallaghers and Gallagher-adjacents are so good at.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, like they didn’t already duck into the bathroom and trade blowjobs in their wedding suits. Whatever, they’re kind of gross and very trashy. He’s been accused of way worse.

“Everybody say bye to the happy couple!” Kev yells out.

They get some wolf whistles and cheers. “You going?” Fiona asks. She and V have been dancing with the twins and Liam all night. She comes over and gives Ian a hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Proud of ya.” She presses a kiss to Mickey’s cheek, too, and he cringes away. She just laughs at him.

“Let me tell you,” V says, leaning in and dropping her voice so her kids can’t hear. “That first married fuck is something different. Can’t explain why. But it _is_. And we weren’t even actually legally married, so yours is going to be crazy.”

“Uh, thanks,” Ian says.

Kev nods. “She is not wrong.”

“Okay,” Ian says. “All of you have very…pungent breath. Being the only sober person here is not fun.” He looks around. “Oh. I don’t see Lip. So I guess I really _am_ the only sober person here.”

“He and Tami took Freddie home,” Fiona confirms.

“Little dude can’t hang,” Carl says, shaking his head.

“I don’t see Debbie or Sandy, either,” V adds with a big, obnoxious wink.

“Okay, gross,” Mickey complains. He still thinks it’s weird that his cousin is currently fucking Ian’s sister. “Where’s Mandy?” He looks around. “Ay, Mandy! We’re going. Bye.”

She peels herself off some dude wearing a tie. Mickey doesn’t know who he is. Mandy probably doesn’t, either. She blinks a few times and then waves. “Have fun fucking.”

“We will,” Ian promises, making her cackle before she dives back in with Tie Dude.

It takes a few more minutes to get away from all the well-wishing. Mickey figures it could be worse. It could take forever to leave because everyone hates them and wants to beat on them or something. Not like Mickey hasn’t experienced that.

Frank’s sitting on the sidewalk just outside the reception hall, leaning against the wall. As drunk as everyone else is inside, none of them have anything on Frank. He had to have come drunk already or brought his own drinks; they definitely didn’t get enough free alcohol off Kev and V to get that many people this drunk.

“My first married child,” Frank slurs.

“Fiona and Carl have both been married,” Ian says. “And did you forget your other daughter, Sammi? Pretty sure she got married like fifty times.”

“Fuck her,” Mickey says vehemently.

“Agreed,” Frank says.

“I didn’t _not_ agree,” Ian points out.

“Just remember,” Frank says, pointing a finger. Mickey can’t figure out which one of them he’s pointing at. His finger is closer to Mickey, but it’s not actually pointed where either one of them is standing and his eyes are completely out of focus. “Even if he fucks someone else, you’re the one he loves.”

“Wow,” Ian deadpans. “What wonderful advice on our wedding day.”

Frank isn’t being an asshole, though. Not purposefully, anyway, though that is basically his natural state. But he’s actually being…well, heartfelt. He has tears in his eyes. “Your mother always came back to me,” Frank says. “That’s what real love is, son. She had her phases. She went wild every now and then. But she always made her way back to me.”

They can hear the music and the laughter and talking inside the reception hall. It’s a distant rumble from out here. It’s a warm night, the air all humid and heavy the way it gets in the late summer. For the first time in his entire life, Mickey feels something other than total scorn for Frank. This dude is sitting outside in the dark by himself, blind drunk, thinking about his dead wife at his kid’s wedding. Mickey actually feels _bad_ for Frank. That’s never happened before.

Ian looks a little stricken. Bringing up Monica is always touchy. Even with all the shit she put him through over the years, Ian always loved her. Mickey thinks that made it worse. He’d get his hopes up every time and she’d still always end up leaving.

Mickey knows how that feels.

Shit. He feels like something just clicked in his brain. He can’t fully articulate it. Maybe it’s some kind of alcohol-fueled epiphany he won’t remember in the morning. But right now, everything makes perfect sense.

Ian’s always loved him. Ian’s always planned on coming back to him. Ian always did come back to him, or wanted to be with Mickey again when Mickey came back. All the other shit that got in the way is the shit that doesn’t matter. What _does_ matter is this: Ian and Mickey. Ian was right after all. They’re inevitable. Not because of fate or whatever. Because they want to be. Because they love each other. Because they choose to come back to each other.

“Okay, well…” Ian swallows hard. “Thanks for the advice, I guess.”

Mickey doesn’t entirely remember putting his arm around Ian’s waist, but he’s glad he did. He squeezes Ian close to his side. “I love you,” Mickey mumbles. “Forever, okay? I don’t care—it doesn’t matter. Any of that. I just love you. I fucking love you.”

“I’ve _always_ loved you, Mick,” Ian promises, so Mickey knows they’re on the same page here, thinking-wise.

“I know,” Mickey says. “I know you have.” He puts a hand on Ian’s cheek and one in his hair and kisses him. He needs Ian to get what Mickey can’t find words to say: Mickey forgives him. Mickey’s not keeping score. Mickey knows Ian won’t do any of that shit again.

“Well, I didn’t mean to get myself a front-row seat to this,” Frank says. “I’ve already seen this show, remember?”

Ian clicks his tongue, annoyed. “I’m surprised _you_ can remember.”

“Traumatic images are often burned into the brain,” Frank says sagely. “Like a Milkovich’s lily-white ass being penetrated by my son.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says. “Should’ve killed you all the times I had the chance.”

“Let’s go,” Ian says. They take off without another word to Frank.

They’re staying in a hotel. Some honeymoon suite all of Ian’s siblings and Kev and V went in together to get them. The hotel’s only about three blocks from home, but at least they get to be alone. Mickey’s family did not get them any kind of present, but getting Mandy to show up at all is pretty much what passes for a Milkovich present. And even though Mickey’s uncle didn’t mean for murdering Terry to be a present, Mickey will sure as shit take it as one. Murder is definitely a Milkovich kind of present.

“You good?” Mickey asks when they get in the car.

Ian looks kind of surprised. “Yeah, Mick, of course I am. Best day of my life.”

Well, Jesus, that makes Mickey melt a little. “Just—you know,” Mickey says awkwardly, forcing the words out. For Ian. “Frank. And Monica.”

Ian gives him a smile that means Mickey did something good, something thoughtful. “I’m good,” Ian promises. “I actually—I’m kind of glad he brought her up.” Ian swallows hard. “Me and Debbie talked about her, just a little. Wish she could’ve been there and seen it all.” He smiles, eyes far away as he looks out the windshield. “She would’ve been so happy to see me get married.” He turns his smile to Mickey. “She would’ve been so happy to know _I_ was so happy.”

The love that wells up in Mickey’s chest isn’t the giddy, frantic kind Mickey feels sometimes, the kind that makes him laugh and feel like he could fly. This love is soft and settling. Mickey doesn’t feel settled a lot, but it’s always been Ian that makes him feel that way. He thinks about all the times he and Ian were apart, thinks about how often Ian left him and hurt him and how many times he left Ian and hurt him, and thinks about how they got here, married and waiting to go fuck the night away for their honeymoon. He thinks of all the people who know how it feels to be left over and over, but don’t know how it feels to win in the end, to get that forever promise.

Mickey leans over the center console to kiss Ian. The kiss is almost chaste, just a soft press of lips and Mickey’s hand on Ian’s chin. Mickey leans his forehead against Ian’s and they breathe together for a second. “Thanks,” Mickey murmurs.

“For what?” Ian asks, voice hushed.

“For always letting me come back. For always coming back,” Mickey tells him. He was a little worried Ian’s face would fall, that he’d feel guilty for the reminder of the times he left.

Instead, Ian gives him another kiss. His lips are still brushing Mickey’s when he says, “Well, it won’t happen again. I’m not gonna be coming back anymore.”

“’Cause you’re not leaving anymore,” Mickey fills in. He knows that, in his bones, in his stomach, in his heart. Most importantly, in his brain. This is the truth. This is reality.

Ian smiles, sweet and happy. “I’m never leaving again,” he promises. “Not unless you’re with me.”

“’kay, well, can we leave now and get to the hotel?” Mickey asks. “We wait any longer to get fucking and I’m gonna cum in my pants.”

Ian laughs out loud. “God, I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too, and I love your dick, so let’s go before I give up on tonight being special and make you fuck me in the back seat.”

Ian’s eyes darken. “I don’t think that’s _not_ special.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll do that, too, but not right away, okay?” Mickey shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I want—we’re married now. I want to feel like it. Not some quick fuck in the first place we can be alone.”

Ian leans in and kisses him again. “I love you,” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he pulls away and starts driving, because he’s using actions to back up his words, just like Mickey asked him to. At the next red light, he looks over at Mickey with a smile so soft and warm it almost makes Mickey tear up. Ian takes his hand and kisses it, then rests their hands together on the center console.

“We’re married,” he says with a smile.

“We’re married,” Mickey echoes. They look at each other, holding hands, sitting in their tuxes, and Mickey’s never felt better about the future in his entire life.

“Really?” Ian asks, looking at the building in front of them. “Here?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah.”

Ian examines the bar Mickey ran away to that awful night, that time he needed to be away from Ian. Ian nods sagely. “You want to revisit the place you met Byron.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mickey mutters, rolling his eyes while Ian cracks up at his own wit.

“The one who got away,” Ian sing-songs.

“I’m gonna get you away,” Mickey says nonsensically. Ian laughs at him a little, but it’s not the kind of laughing at him that makes Mickey’s blood boil. It just makes him smile. He bites down on it, because he’s got a reputation to uphold here, after all, even if Ian knows him far too well to believe in that reputation by now.

Mickey grabs onto Ian’s hand while they walk in, and he earns himself a big grin from Ian. Holding Ian’s hand isn’t something Mickey avoids anymore, but it’s still not something he does every day. Debbie’s got all this shit to say about childhood trauma and Terry and masculinity. She’s taking some online feminist theory course that makes Mickey want to brain her at least twice per day, which just gives her more fuel for the fire. He’s not sure any of what she says is wrong, really, but that doesn’t mean he wants to listen to it.

He can feel Ian’s wedding ring against his skin, and that makes him smile again. They’re married. They’ve been married for a few weeks now, but the novelty isn’t wearing off. Their PO was kind of pissed when he found out, since that’s apparently kind of a paperwork headache for him, but Mickey doesn’t give a shit about anyone who isn’t happy for them. These past few weeks of waking up with Ian as his _husband_ have been the best of his life.

“Hi,” the bartender calls out when they come inside. It’s the same chick from before. Mickey was kind of hoping she’d be here, but he’s also kind of embarrassed about it. She squints at him for a second. “You’ve been here before.” How the fuck does she remember that? It was like five months ago. Mickey can hardly remember people he saw five hours ago.

“Uh,” Mickey says. She looks over to Ian and then back to Mickey.

“Oh!” She says. “I remember. You were crazy drunk and didn’t want to go home with him and you told me to shut the fuck up when I tried to make you not go home with that other guy.”

Ian’s basking in Mickey’s embarrassment, because Ian’s an asshole. Mickey scratches at his eyebrow, unsure of what to say, and then her eyes snag on his wedding ring. She raises her eyebrows and Mickey shrugs.

“Yeah, we got married.” He can’t quite keep his smile under control when he says it.

She tips her head to the side. “So you did eventually talk to him.”

“Made me sweat it out for a week, but yeah,” Ian chimes in. “We got our shit together now.”

“Cool,” she says. She sounds kind of confused, like she isn’t sure why they’re in her bar or telling her all this. Mickey’s not entirely sure either, truth be told. He just didn’t want there to be someone, somewhere in the world, thinking that he and Ian were on the outs. Even if she doesn’t know them, he wanted her to know the dude with the knuckle tats and the redhead dude are together and they’re good.

“Came for some drinks,” Mickey says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “’s a bar, right?”

“Yeah,” she says easily. “Sure. Okay. Come sit at the bar and I’ll get you some just married drinks.”

“What are just married drinks?” Ian asks.

“Knock-off champagne that kind of tastes like a mixture of beer and vodka,” she informs them.

Ian pulls a face, but Mickey shrugs. “I’ve mixed beer and vodka.”

“So have I,” Ian says. “I don’t know if I want to do it again.”

“They’re just married drinks,” Mickey reasons. “We’re just married. Don’t be a pussy.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. They sit down and Ian looks around. “Kinda surprised this is where you came,” he muses. “I never really expected you to pick a gay bar.”

“Me neither,” Mickey admits. “’specially since I kind of wanted to get in a fight. Would’ve been easier to go to some bar my dad hung out at all the time and find someone who wanted to kick my homo ass. But I wanted to find someone to go home with since I couldn’t go home.”

Ian hums, a little regretful but not enough for Mickey to need to reassure him about it. It happened, and they can’t change that it happened. They’re making up for it now, though. Ian made Mickey make this pact about talking shit out. “It’s part of the marriage vows,” he’d said.

“That chick didn’t say shit about talking,” Mickey had argued, but he hadn’t been very serious. He actually likes talking shit out with Ian. He likes not feeling so unsure about everything all the time, thinking one of them could just get pissed one day and take off. He likes feeling…secure. That’s what it is. He’s never felt this kind of safety. It’s new to him, and it’s perfect.

The bartender comes back with champagne flutes for them. Mickey’s never exactly been someone who hangs out in places with champagne, but he knows that is not the color champagne is supposed to be. Ian outright grimaces.

“Thanks,” he says, all unenthusiastic.

“You’re welcome,” she chirps. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says. He holds up his glass to Ian. Ian drops his sour face to smile and clink his glass against Mickey’s.

“Cheers,” Ian says. “To my husband.”

Mickey scoffs a little, but he’s smiling. “To my husband.”

They take a sip, and neither of them can hide how awful it is. “Oh, Jesus,” Ian coughs, sticking out his tongue pushing the glass away. “That’s disgusting.”

“That is way worse than vodka and beer together,” Mickey agrees. “Hey, what the fuck?” He asks her. “This is disgusting.”

She gives him this look that’s way too innocent to be real and Mickey realizes she gave them something nasty on purpose. “You don’t like it?”

“You always serve people shitty drinks?” Mickey asks.

“Sure,” she says. “For people who come to my bar, drink for hours until they’re super drunk and loud and rude, and then leave without paying their tab.”

Ian tries another sip of the stuff and coughs. “Oh, God, Mickey, pay her! I need a real drink.”

Mickey’s actually kind of impressed. “You got chops, kid,” he says admiringly.

She shrugs. “Cuts down on lowlifes running out on their tabs and trying to come back.” She looks at him pointedly.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Calm the fuck down.” He pulls out his wallet. He’s got a sloppily written _IOU_ where he had forty bucks last night. “Fucking Carl,” he complains. “Your brother swiped all my cash.”

“Oh, shit, that’s my fault,” Ian realizes. “I told him to take it. He needed new shoes. Something about jumping in a dumpster and finding someone who may or may not have been dead. I stopped asking him a lot of questions a long time ago.”

“He needed forty bucks for new shoes?” Mickey demands. “Where the fuck’s he shopping?”

“You were gonna need more than forty bucks anyway,” the bartender cuts in. Ian gives Mickey a look and then turns back to her, pulling out his wallet.

“How much?” He asks.

“Eighty,” she says.

Ian sputters again, but not from the drink. “Eighty? Mick, you spent eighty bucks on drinks? When have you ever spent eighty bucks in one night?”

“Four and a half months ago,” the bartender supplies helpfully.

“Ex-fucking-scuse me for having a broken heart,” Mickey says. He takes another pull from the drink and grimaces. “Ugh, that’s bad.”

Ian just rolls his eyes at him. “Couldn’t your broken heart have settled for cheap beer?” He hands over his credit card and the bartender leaves them alone to go swipe it.

“Sorry,” Mickey says. “But, you know. Richer or poorer.”

That makes Ian laugh. He leans over to grab Mickey’s left hand and drops a kiss on Mickey’s wedding ring. It makes Mickey blush a little. “Richer or poorer,” Ian echoes, squeezing Mickey’s hand. “I will always pay your debts.”

Mickey huffs. “I think we should’ve just run out and never come back.”

Ian lets go of Mickey so he can take another drink. He shakes his head, face scrunched up in disgust. “I think we gotta be regulars here now,” he says.

“If you mention Byron—” Mickey threatens.

Ian laughs. “No, not Byron,” Ian promises. “I just like this place. You went to a gay bar, Mick! That’s amazing. And besides, I like that bartender girl.”

“Reminds you of Mandy, huh?” Mickey says.

Ian’s eyes light up. “Oh, my God, _yes_! That’s what it is.”

“Got the bitchy thing down,” Mickey mutters when she comes back. She’s got Ian’s card and two beers.

“Peace offering,” she says.

“Thank you,” Ian says. “And don’t worry, we won’t be skipping out on any tabs anymore.”

“Good,” she says. “And just for the record, I really did mean that congratulations. I like knowing people can make it together, you know?” She gives them a little smile and then heads to the other end of the bar, where a kid who’s trying out his fake ID is trying not to look too obvious as he squints at all the alcohol around him.

“Not skipping out on anything anymore,” Ian murmurs, close to Mickey’s ear. “Never again.”

Mickey laughs a little. “You don’t have to turn everything into a promise not to leave.”

“Sure, I don’t _have_ to,” Ian agrees. “I just _want_ to.” He drops a kiss onto Mickey’s shoulder. “I like reminding you.”

“Alright,” Mickey says, taking a drink from his beer. “I don’t really need a reminder anymore,” he says, watching Ian out of the corner of his eye. “I know you’re not going anywhere.” Mickey takes another drink, and then he adds, “I trust you, Ian.”

Ian looks over at him with a soft smile on his face. “Thank you, Mickey.”

Mickey shrugs. He doesn’t know if he needs thanks for that. “I love you,” he says instead of anything about that.

Ian’s smile is the best thing Mickey’s ever seen. It always is—first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It doesn’t matter how many times Mickey sees Ian smile; it’s always the best thing he’s ever seen. He gets to see that smile a million times a day. He gets to _cause_ that smile a million times a day. He knows he’ll feel that smile against his lips when he gets home from work and hear that smile while they lie in the dark and talk about their day.

Ian leans in and presses that smile against Mickey’s in a kiss. “I love you, too,” he says. They go back to their beers. They sit in a bar and they talk and laugh and shoot the shit. They sit together, and they live their life, just like Mickey’s always wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> I will kill Terry in as many fanfics as humanly possible and I encourage everyone else to do the same.
> 
> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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